


Crimes of Passion

by randomling



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Action, M/M, Politics, UST, mob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1714499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomling/pseuds/randomling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cal cut ties with the Dumayne crime family, he thought he was out of the life for good. But when he's offered a bodyguarding job, the money's too good to be true - and his new employer too intriguing to resist. Who is Vincent Dumayne? And what, in the end, will he be to Cal?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**1**

“Sit,” the woman said. Cal obeyed mutely, and the woman positioned herself in the chair facing his. Her movements, he noticed, were small and precise: she had breeding. She was probably higher up in the family than anyone he’d dealt with before. “My name is Miss Starling. I have an opportunity for you.”

“I don’t do that sort of work any more,” he said.

“This isn’t the sort of work we’ve offered you before.”

Cal raised his eyebrows. He’d known her for what she was before she’d even approached him - it was all in the brooch. It was small enough that, unless you knew it, you’d think it was nothing but decoration. Around here, though, most people knew it well enough that the crowd parted around her. In a tavern like this one, everyone knew who the Dumayne family were and what they did.

“So what’s the job?” he asked.

Miss Starling smiled faintly. There was no warmth in it. “Protection. One night, one person to guard, little danger, no more than three hours for the entire job. Your fee will be twelve silver.”

Cal blinked. Today, for ten hours loading crates onto merchant ships down at the river, he’d earned a single silver piece. Not a year ago, the Dumaynes had only paid five silver for murder. Twelve, for half a night’s worth of keeping someone alive?

It seemed too good to be true. And - as his mother had loved to say - if something seemed too good to be true, it likely was.

“No,” he said. “I told you, I don’t do that kind of work.”

“You have one day to decide,” Miss Starling said. “I’ll return here tomorrow evening. I expect you to be here.” She gave him a stern look; Cal was reminded of his teacher at Temple, long ago. There had been more warmth in his teacher, though. She got up.

Cal sat back in his seat and watched her go.

*

The next day was bright but chilly: a preview of the oncoming winter. Cal was dockside by six and hired well before seven, but hauling crates left him plenty of space to think. Miss Starling’s offer was almost too good to resist: twelve silver for three hours’ work. Almost two weeks’ wages in his pocket after a few hours.

He’d told himself - and told the family - that he’d never work for them again. And it had been almost a year, keeping his nose clean and himself out of the Dumaynes’ way, avoiding the seedier taverns, the ones where he’d once met with Kevin and angled for work. He spent a lot of time dockside these days - it was steady work, ships going in and out every day.

At the end of the day, Joe Peregrin pressed a silver into Cal’s dirty palm. “Back tomorrow, lad?”

“Should be,” Cal said.

“Good.” Joe was a small, dark-haired man with a hook nose and a slanted grin. He offered it now. “Lots on this week. Night.” He clapped Cal on the shoulder once, and Cal took his cue and moved out into the crowd, slipping the silver piece into his belt pouch as he went. Behind him, Joe paid the next man in line.

At the crossroads, he hesitated for a moment. Left was the Lion & Lamb, where he could wait for Miss Starling, take the job and get paid. Right, he could disappear into the slums. A lady like that would never look for him down there, and he could find a flophouse, a bowl of broth, slice of bread. He’d be free. And tomorrow he could hop on one of those boats instead of loading and unloading them; leave the city and he’d never have to think about the Dumaynes again.

He’d thought about it, once or twice. But at his size, he’d struggle to find a nook big enough to stow away in. It had been one thing at fifteen; it was something else now. And it’d take him months of steady work to put away money for passage.

Sighing, Cal headed left.

*

Miss Starling took two hours to arrive. Cal was sipping slowly at his second mug of ale and flipping through the two coppers left in his purse. Enough for a hunk of bread to serve as dinner, maybe. He supposed he’d really better take that job. He was relieved, truth be told, when he saw her standing at the doorway. He shouldn’t have spent most of the day’s earnings on beer, but the barkeep here didn’t let you sit long without a mug in your hand.

He knew the form from long practise. He made eye contact just long enough to acknowledge her and looked away. A few moments later she was at his side, but she didn’t sit on the stool beside him, only put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Even through his shirt and jacket, he could feel that she was cold.

“Shall we?”

Cal glanced up at her, finished his beer in one long swallow, and nodded. She turned away without another word, and he followed her out into the night. Now that the sun had set, chilly had turned cold, and the wind nipped at Cal’s hands and face as they walked side by side down the street and off into an alley where a carriage was waiting.

It was a nice carriage, too: the kind with a roof, two black horses out front, a driver in dark clothes sitting on top. Cal nodded to the driver and was ignored - even she had too much breeding for the likes of Cal. Miss Starling climbed into the carriage, and cleared her throat impatiently when Cal hesitated. “Come along!” she said sharply.

Cal ducked his head to climb in. The inside was even nicer than the outside - soft seats, some kind of pattern around the tops of the walls. He settled himself, somewhat nervously, opposite Miss Starling, and closed the door after himself.

“Drive on,” Miss Starling said. The carriage lurched and began to move.

Miss Starling said nothing more for the length of the journey, and Cal leaned forward to peer out of the the window as the city went by. They left the merchant district and passed houses, first small and then larger. Finally, the houses were almost as large as Cal’s parents’ entire holding, with iron fences to keep the robbers out. Cal’s eyes were wide by the time the carriage drew to a halt.

The driver held the door open for Miss Starling, and closed it after Cal, who stared up at the house, disbelieving. This house was almost the size of the temple in his home town, with two stories and a long cobbled path between the huge iron gates and the great wooden front door. “This way,” Miss Starling said, and she strode towards the house so fast that Cal had to jog a few steps to catch up. She entered the house without knocking and didn’t look behind her to see whether Cal followed, only went straight up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, she stopped in front of a closed door and knocked. Cal hovered behind her. “Wait,” said a loud, clear voice, and Miss Starling said nothing, only waited. A few moments later, the voice called again: “Come,” and Miss Starling opened the door.

“Ah, Marissa,” the voice continued when Miss Starling opened the door. Stepping across the threshold, Cal saw the owner of the voice from behind: a man, maybe a little shorter than Cal’s six feet, slender, with black hair that hung loose past his shoulders. The man turned. He was buttoning his shirt. “And - “ His eyes met Cal’s for a moment so brief that Cal couldn’t be sure it had really happened. Then the man’s attention returned to Miss Starling. “This must be the mysterious Mr Mackie.”

“Indeed he is,” Miss Starling said. “Mr Mackie, I present to you your employer, Mr Vincent Dumayne.”

**2**

“Well,” Vincent said, taking the opportunity to look Mr Mackie up and down. Until this moment, all he’d known about Mackie was that he’d already refused the job once. Now he could add a few more facts to the pile: the lad was _huge_ , all over muscle, not well-washed, and barely managing to look Vincent in the eye. He certainly looked the part. “Take a seat, Mr Mackie,” Vincent said.

The lad glanced around warily. Marissa, always the one to take charge of the situation, produced a chair from behind her and placed it in the middle of the room. Vincent pulled another from where it had been sitting beside the window, tossed the dirty shirt to the floor, and picked up his dagger before sitting down. He watched as Mackie shrugged off his backpack - clearly heavier than Vincent could lift - and put it on the floor. Vincent could hear metal implements inside the bag, clanging against each other as Mackie took his seat.

“Do I call you Mackie?” Vincent asked.

“Most everyone calls me Cal, sir.” Vincent flipped the dagger absently and saw Cal’s eyes follow the movement. Vincent smiled: he had good instincts.

“Cal it is,” Vincent said. The idleness in his voice was affected. “Tell me about yourself, Cal.”

Cal opened his mouth and shut it again, clearly unsure how to answer. Well; Vincent wasn’t hiring the man for his social skills. “Er,” Cal said. “What do you need to know?”

Vincent turned the dagger again, made it spin in the air and caught it by its pearl handle. It was the simplest kind of knife-play, really, all in the wrist, but Cal’s reaction was the important part. He didn’t look impressed or dazzled by the trick. Bring out your weapon, and he was all sharp attention.

That was a good start.

“You’ve worked for us before,” Vincent said. He wasn’t really asking the question: Marissa had given him ample information on the lad’s history with the family.

Cal said, “Yessir,” still watching the knife as Vincent made it dance. And into the silence that followed: “You knew that.”

Ah, and a bit of spirit, too. Maybe this one wouldn’t be so bad. Vincent caught the knife by its handle one last time and let it fall still. “I did.”

Marissa was still standing to one side, observing. Naturally she would make a mental note of everything that was said; Marissa’s memory was near-perfect. Vincent glanced at her once, then met Cal’s eyes. “Not this kind of work,” he said. Cal shook his head once. “Think you’re up to it?”

“Yes, sir,” and Vincent could hear the subtext as clearly as if it had been said aloud. _I need the work._

Vincent turned to Marissa. “Have a note sent to Antonia,” he said. “We’ll meet her at the usual place in two hours.” Marissa nodded and left the room in her usual brisk way, shutting the door behind her softly but firmly.

“Now, Cal,” Vincent said, affecting idleness again, “are you hungry?”

*

Cal ate fast and ravenously. Vincent, lingering over his meal, summoned the butler twice to refill Cal’s plate and wine glass. Most of him felt a quiet, detached amusement at the situation - this boy, coarse and unwashed, the latest in a long line of failed appointments. If you couldn’t find a good bodyguard in this city, where _could_ you find one? Perhaps they were a myth.

But there was another part of Vincent, so small it was barely noticeable; the part that made him call for the butler and, later, another of the servants to bring a bath and hot water. When the servant appeared, Cal looked nervous enough that Vincent put on a casual air, shrugged into his jacket, and stepped out of the room. “We leave in an hour,” Vincent said over his shoulder, putting all his art into louche-young-nobleman. “Do be quick.”

While Cal bathed, Vincent urged Marissa to find some clothes that might fit him - the part of him that _was_ a louche young nobleman told him Cal’s own outfit just would not do. He looked like - well. He looked like what he was, Vincent supposed: a labourer. Tonight, appearance would be all-important. Cal had to look like a companion, not a thug.

After that, Vincent waited downstairs in the drawing room, practising with his dagger while Marissa, presumably, looked for clothes. As he manipulated it, light flashed off the blade, making reflections around the room, and Vincent considered. Were his mother here, she’d advise against cynicism. Give the boy a chance; what’s to lose?

The problem was this: tonight, the answer to that question was _everything_. He knew Antonia well, and she him. One false move, and the entire house of cards could come crumbling down. The house of cards in question, of course, didn’t reside so much with Cal’s protection as with Vincent’s own skill. But if he failed…

Vincent’s thoughts were stopped in their tracks by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He could hear Marissa’s dainty steps under the heavy sound of a large man in workboots. Vincent sheathed his dagger and slouched against a wall, putting idleness back on like a cloak. Marissa entered first, stepping to one side of the door. Cal cast a long shadow as he entered the room, and - 

Vincent swallowed hard. Cal cleaned up _well._

So well, in fact, that Vincent struggled momentarily to keep his cloak of indifference in place. The clothes Marissa had found fitted Cal better than the ones he’d arrived in, showing off a body that was well-defined as well as large. His hair was still damp from the bath, and his face, clean now, was beautiful. He was also standing stiffer than before, clearly uncomfortable in the new outfit. Overall, though, the effect was stunning. Vincent took a breath and collected himself.

“Well,” he said, and the voice that came out was fairly consistent with the image he’d been presenting to this point. “That’s somewhat better. Shall we?”

*

The meeting place was - by design - a little way outside the city, a good distance from the Dumanye house. A good distance from the Mancini headquarters, too; the tradition had emerged long ago, before the families had discovered each other’s home bases. Still, Vincent was glad of the lengthy carriage ride. It was a good chance to clear his head.

Opposite him, Cal was watching the city rattle past. Vincent sat back in his seat and folded his hands over his stomach, thinking. There was, he thought, common ground to be found. Like Vincent, Antonia had a lot at stake. Perhaps she, too, wanted this deal to go smoothly. The trick would be to convince her that he wasn’t planning the usual double-cross - and to find out whether she had something of that nature in mind.

This was an area where Vincent’s mother would advise cynicism.

“When we arrive,” Vincent said, “you don’t offer to shake hands. Not with Antonia, not with her bodyguard.” Cal turned, his attention on Vincent in a split second. That, too, was a good sign. “They’ll interpret any physical contact from you as a threat.”

“Yes, sir,” Cal said.

Vincent allowed himself a half-smile. “I’m not expecting an ambush,” he said.

Cal finished his sentence: “But I should be prepared for anything.”

“Absolutely anything,” Vincent confirmed.

“Yes, sir.” Cal nodded firmly. Vincent could see that Cal took this seriously. He didn’t really understand how twelve silver could motivate someone to not only risk their hide to keep you alive, but to take it so close to heart as this. Twelve silver was barely enough to feed you for a day.

He opened his mouth to ask about it, then closed it again. Some things you didn’t discuss with a hireling. “Good,” he said instead. “We’ll be there in a few minutes. Be on your guard.”

Cal caught Vincent’s gaze, and for a second time Vincent saw a flicker of spirit in his eyes. Somewhere, under that grimly serious exterior, there was something far livelier. This time Vincent didn’t allow the smile to surface, didn’t acknowledge the spike of hope, that maybe this was someone he could really work with. He only nodded when Cal said, “That’s my job.”

**3**

Cal followed Mr Dumayne out of the carriage with a tense, nervous feeling in the middle of his chest. They had arrived at a low stone building set in the middle of a field; it seemed to be abandoned, now, but it looked to Cal as if it had once been used to store grain or hay. There wasn’t much light to see by, but Cal couldn’t see any trace of the farmhouse that should be nearby.

Waiting by the storehouse was another horse and carriage, with a black-suited driver much like the man who had brought them here. As Mr Dumayne approached the building, Cal nodded to the driver. Then he took a few hurried steps to catch up with his employer, moved around him to reach the door first. Mr Dumayne stood back and allowed Cal to open it.

The room was bathed in lamplight. There was a single low table, flanked by benches. A lady sat at the table, facing the door; she was round and dark-haired. Her clothes were high-class but not ostentatious - like Mr Dumayne’s. Behind her stood man, much thinner than Cal himself; but Cal knew well enough that size wasn’t the only measure of a man, not even in a fight. He looked capable and tough. Cal glanced into the corners. No one was hiding; Cal turned and nodded to Mr Dumayne.

Mr Dumayne came in slowly. Not cautiously but idly, as if he had no real worries and could take all night.

“Good evening, Antonia,” Mr Dumayne said.

The lady rose and extended her hand. Mr Dumayne shook it and inclined his head gracefully to indicate Cal. “My associate,” he added, “Mr Mackie.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure.”

Cal nodded to her. Unsure of what to do, he copied the thin man, standing behind Mr Dumayne’s shoulder, hands folded behind his back. The thin man had the trick of looking dangerous and relaxed at the same time, and it reminded Cal of Kevin. He only let that distract him for a moment, though. He set his shoulders and found a point on the far wall to focus on.

“How’s the family?” Mr Dumayne asked. His tone was friendly and calm. Cal glanced at his employer briefly; he still looked utterly relaxed and unconcerned. “Well, I hope?”

“Very well,” the lady said. “Shall we talk business?”

*

There wasn’t much for Cal to do over the next two hours except listen to the conversation. He didn’t understand much of it; when he worked for Kevin, he’d got used to conversations going over his head. They were clearly negotiating something, but it was all done in code and euphemisms. They kept talking about “goods”, but if he was asked later, Cal wouldn’t be able to say what was being moved, where it had come from, or where it was going.

In fact, he was sure that was the idea.

The wind had picked up since the start of the meeting, and the clothes Marissa had thrust at him were strange and uncomfortable. So Cal was cold, and he itched. Maybe that was to blame for what happened next. The conversation had gone on for a long time, and Cal’s wasn’t watching so closely any more. Mr Dumayne still seemed so relaxed that it took Cal by surprise when the thin man leaned very casually across the table and grabbed Mr Dumayne by the throat.

Cal, to his horror, froze.

Mr Dumayne’s hands came up to struggle against the thin man’s strangling grip. The thin man, meanwhile, was slowly pulling Mr Dumayne to his feet. The lady stood up and brought out a dagger that had been tucked into the bodice of her dress. That motion - the glint of the weapon in the lamplight - was enough to set Cal in motion.

Using the bench as a step, he jumped over the table and barrelled into the thin man. The thin man lost his grip on Mr Dumayne’s throat and in another moment, Cal had him pinned against the wall. He heard Mr Dumayne coughing behind him.

The thin man was stronger than he looked - and fast, too. Cal elbowed him in the face, and was following that up with a knee to the stomach when he heard Mr Dumayne’s voice cry out - in fear or pain, he wasn’t sure. He turned. Mr Dumayne was crouched on the table, holding his stomach with one hand, the other brandishing the pearl-handled dagger; the lady clearly had the advantage.

Cal lunged forward to grab at her, but as he did so, the thin man’s fist connected with his back, hard. He fell forward, one knee connecting with the stone floor, and looked up. Behind him, the thin man was advancing. The lady had drawn her hand back for another dagger strike. Cal cast about him for resources and found himself meeting Mr Dumayne’s eyes. Cal might have imagined it, but it seemed to him like a moment of understanding passed between them. Mr Dumayne looked pointedly behind Cal, and he nodded once.

Cal looked over his shoulder. Hanging on the wall, behind him, was a lamp, and - it took Cal another moment to understand.

Then he yanked the lamp off the wall and smashed it against the table.

The wood caught fire. Mr Dumayne, prepared, jumped backwards, but they had caught the lady and her bodyguard by surprise. They both staggered back, coughing. Cal hesitated - the table was all fire now.

“Cal! Come on!” Mr Dumayne’s voice yelled over the flames.

Cal sucked in a deep breath. The benches hadn’t caught yet. He put his foot up on the bench near him and jumped, feeling intense heat on his legs as he went over the table. He landed on the other side, stumbled, but didn’t fall. Mr Dumayne put out two hands to hold him up.

“Let’s go,” Mr Dumayne said. Behind them, the lady and the thin man were already regrouping. Mr Dumayne yanked the door open, and they ran out into the night.

*

Cal kicked the door back as he passed it. It banged loudly, and Cal didn’t look back to find out if it had swung open again. Instead he kept on Mr Dumayne’s heels, heading straight for the carriage and escape. A few feet before the carriage, Mr Dumayne stumbled, his face creasing up in pain. Cal was there to catch him, sweeping his slender legs up in one arm and cradling his back with the other. Mr Dumayne’s had one hand holding the stab wound in his belly, and Cal could see blood beginning to seep through his shirt between his fingers.

Another few steps and they were at the carriage door. Cal had barely had a moment to consider the problem when Mr Dumayne pulled the door open, his fingers damp with blood. Cal twisted to put Mr Dumayne on the seat, and ducked his head as his employers shouted, “Drive!”

Nothing happened.

“Drive!” Mr Dumayne repeated. Cal, his feet still on the running board, peered around to the driver’s seat. The driver was still there, the reins in her hand, but she was sitting in a strange, slumped position. Cal stepped down, glancing over his shoulder as he did so. The lady and the thin man had emerged from the shack with a gust of thick smoke.

“Cal, what are you doing? _Marier!_ ” Mr Dumayne yelled. Cal could hear the anger and pain in his voice as he hopped up on to the step beside the driver’s seat. From here, he confirmed what he had guessed: the driver’s throat was gashed open, blood pouring down her shirt, her face ashen. The lady’s carriage was opposite, her driver at the reins, and he met Cal’s eyes with a vicious grin.

“She’s dead, sir,” Cal said.

“What?!”

Mr Dumayne’s head appeared from the door of the carriage, his face in an expression of outrage. Cal glanced from his employer, to the lady and her bodyguard quickly recovering, to the driver with that murderous look in his eye. Cal made a quick decision. “Sorry,” he said to the driver, and pushing her body from the seat, he took up the carriage’s reins and yanked on them hard before he properly had his balance.

There was a terrifying moment when he almost fell. He heard the carriage’s door slam shut behind him and turned the carriage sharply. The lady screamed, “Get after them!” and Cal didn’t need to look to know that her driver was spurring his horse. He urged Mr Dumayne’s horse faster, heart in his throat.

They raced back towards the city, the lady’s carriage hard on their heels. Cal wasn’t sure what was going to happen when they reached the city - there were _laws_ about speed inside the walls - but it turned out he never needed to find out. The horse started to flag, and the lady’s carriage went from right behind them to pulling alongside. Cal tried to spur the horse harder, but it was no good; the carriage came level.

The lady’s driver was a small, squat man with a tiny moustache. Cal had only a moment to observe him before he launched himself at Cal, and his small body collided with Cal’s large one at speed, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

The impact sent a great jolt of pain up Cal’s back. They landed on the side of the road and rolled from gravel to grass, down a gentle slope. The driver’s hands grabbed at Cal’s shirt, and Cal made two attempts to shove him off before finally managing to throw him to one side.

Cal leapt to his feet. He was angry now, rage starting to bubble through him as he finally understood: this had been an _ambush._ The smaller man was struggling into a sitting position, but Cal sent him back down with a fist to the face, followed up with a punch to the chest, a knee to the stomach. Cal straddled the driver, held him down easily with a hand to each shoulder. Up on the road, the horses had come to a standstill.

“You’re dead meat,” the driver spat.

“Easy,” Cal said. “It’ll be less pain for you if you don’t struggle.”

“Gonna kill me then, you Dumayne thug?”

“What, like you killed our driver?” Cal paused, as if considering. “No,” he said. “I’m no killer.”

“Let me go, I’ll find you, I’ll kill you.”

Cal lifted one hand, almost lazily, and punched him in the jaw. “Say again?” But the driver only coughed once, twice, and spat his mouthful of blood into Cal’s face. “Fine. Good luck finding me. But if you lay a finger Mr Dumayne, or any of his family or friends, ever again, _I_ will kill _you._ Get me?”

The driver stared up at him, chest heaving. Cal suppressed a sigh: his old skills were coming back to him far too easily. He sat back, releasing the driver’s other shoulder, let him scramble backwards and away.

“Go pick up your lady,” said Cal. The man gave him another evil look, got to his feet, and ran back to his carriage. As he mounted and turned the carriage, Cal stood up heavily. He made his way up the verge and opened the carriage door.

“Sorry for the rough ride, sir,” he said.

Mr Dumayne was slumped against the side of the carriage, his face pale, though whether that was from the journey or his injury, Cal didn’t know. Either way, Cal needed to get him home, now.

“I’m… fine…” he said unconvincingly, and then: “Take me home.”

“Not long now, I promise.”

Mr Dumayne nodded and closed his eyes. Cal closed the door gently, climbed back into the driver’s seat, and took up the reins.


	2. Chapter 2

**4**

“I think he’s perfect,” Vincent said belligerently.

Under Marissa’s disapproving gaze, he lifted a forkful of eggs, sneered at it, and put the fork down again. He still hadn’t fully regained his appetite. Marissa glared at him. “Perfect for _what?_ ” she said. “Cleaning the gutters, perhaps? I believe they need some attention.”

“For the job. He’s _good,_ Marissa.”

“Is he? I seem to remember you returned to this house covered in blood. What do you think the Temple thought of that?”

“I think the Temple turned a blind eye, as usual,” said Vincent, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “He saved my life, Marissa.”

“ _Did_ he.” Marissa’s tone, as usual, was haughty and cold. Vincent looked down at his half-eaten breakfast and pushed the eggs around on the plate, deliberately not scowling. He always felt like the petulant child in these conversations; she never _listened_ to him.

And she wouldn’t. Not unless he made a good case.

“Yes,” he said emphatically. “He did. I had no idea what they were planning to do until they did it. Cal got me out of that house, he thought on his feet, and he got me home. That was as well as _anyone_ could have done in the circumstances, so I don’t see why you look down your nose.”

“Why don’t you call on Thibert? He _is_ good.”

“I can’t work with Thibert.” Thibert was a thug, and a dull one at that; he’d stood at Vincent’s side during an uneventful and painfully dull negotiation, and hadn’t had to take any action at all. He’d been impossible to talk to. Cal might be uncultured, but at least he was _interesting._ And he’d reacted like lightning, which was the important thing.

Marissa proceeded to run through a list of names, each one more repugnant than the last. Vincent was particular about who he worked with, and more particular still about his bodyguards: you spent so much time with a bodyguard, being able to get along was crucial. Marissa’s candidates were boring, or aggravating, or some other cardinal sin. Cal might be a little quiet and deferential for Vincent’s tastes, but he’d felt a spark. There was something to work with. That was important, too.

“Hire Cal,” he said, cutting Marissa off midstream. Marissa gave him an offended glare and sat back in her chair. “We’ve already discussed all the others. At length. I like Cal, he reacted very well in a bad situation, and he’s got potential. The rest can be learned.”

Marissa didn’t answer directly, only regarded Vincent coolly over her coffee cup. “How’s the wound?”

“Much better, thank you,” Vincent said. As if to prove it, he forced himself to eat another forkful of eggs. It had been two weeks. Thanks to a favour a priestess owed Mother, he’d healed a lot faster than most people would, but the scar was still somewhat sore. “I’ve made the decision,” he went on. “I’ll be hiring Cal. I’ll find him myself, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Marissa.

Vincent gave a small smile. He’d succeeded - for now, at least. “Good,” he said, and dug into his breakfast with renewed vigour.

*

Cal was summoned the following evening. Vincent had been waiting, in increasing agitation, since Marissa had left an hour before; when he heard footsteps approaching, he sat up straight in his chair. He had to take a deep breath and force himself back into a loose, relaxed posture.

He was ready when Marissa’s knock came. Or so he’d thought; he felt his throat tighten traitorously as he raised his voice to say, “Come in.” He cleared his throat. The door swung open, revealing Marissa and, behind her, Cal, carrying all his belongings with him as before.

Despite himself, Vincent smiled.

He swallowed it almost immediately, but he could tell by the expression on Cal’s face that he hadn’t missed it. “Cal,” he said, standing up and extending his hand. All business. Cal took Vincent’s hand and shook it with a nervous grip. He hadn’t smiled back - Vincent imagined he was too apprehensive - but his face had taken on an open, pleased look.

“Sir,” Cal said warmly.

“Will you sit?”

He’d had the butler set up the dining table as before, loaded down with food. This time they weren’t setting off until tomorrow - Marissa had argued stubbornly to send for him in the morning, but Vincent had pulled his last trump card and overruled her by threatening to bring in Mother. He wanted Cal fed and rested. Ready for the journey. Cal sat uncertainly, looked from the food to Vincent and back again, but restrained himself.

“Help yourself,” Vincent said. “Marissa, would you like to join us?”

It was a conciliatory gesture - he’d been somewhat recalcitrant, one way and another, these past two weeks - but not one that was well-received. Marissa made a face as if disgusted. “I believe I will take my supper in the kitchen,” she said.

“Very well. Thank you, Marissa.”

She nodded and was gone.

Cal had rapidly loaded his plate and was already devouring a chicken leg with great enthusiasm. Vincent sat opposite him and put his own fork into a single potato, which he proceeded to cut into small mouthfuls and eat slowly, chewing each morsel thoroughly.

Cal looked up from the chicken leg, now little more than a bone in his hands. “You all right, sir?”

Vincent started and met Cal’s eyes. Cal was looking at him with undisguised concern. “I’m well,” he said. Cal said nothing, only raised his eyebrows slightly: an expression of disbelief. “I’m much recovered. My appetite is slightly reduced.”

“You’ve got to eat,” Cal said, and without another word, he picked up Vincent’s plate and began to fill it with food. Chicken, roasted vegetables and potatoes, corn, stuffing. Enough to satisfy Cal’s appetite. More than Vincent could eat even in perfect health.

Vincent looked down at the plate in trepidation. “I can’t eat all that.”

“How d’you eat a dragon?” Cal asked.

“You… don’t?” said Vincent, frowning, and Cal flashed him a grin.

“One spoonful at a time,” said Cal. “Come on. You don’t have to finish it, just eat as much as you can.”

Vincent glanced down at his plate, pushed a piece of roasted carrot back and forth with his fork.

“No, don’t play with it. Eat up.”

It was out of character, Vincent thought. Except for the few minutes when they’d been in serious danger, Cal had been all nervous deference until now. This was… interesting. An improvement, perhaps. Except for how Cal’s eyes were on him, steady and unyielding, and now he had to eat the damned food.

He sighed and stabbed the piece of carrot with his fork.

*

Vincent managed about half the meal Cal had set out for him, which was far more than he expected. Cal finished the rest of the food on Vincent’s plate; that he _had_ expected. The lad was permanently starving. After the meal, he left Cal to bathe and decided, since he was bored and surprisingly restless, to help Marissa select clothes for Cal. The outfit he’d worn on the previous assignment had been singed and bloodstained; Marissa had taken one look at it, sneered, and had it burned.

The attic was dusty, but well-supplied; Vincent was impressed with the range of clothing. Most of the clothes were for women, of course, and they had to duck through several racks of dresses in various styles before finding their way to the men’s clothes, which were tucked away at the end. Marissa, all sharp edges as usual, went straight for what she wanted while Vincent lingered over the jackets. He’d never known this place existed.

The jackets were in assorted sizes, not in any particular order on the rack. Vincent flipped through them thoughtfully, running his fingers over flax, wool, cotton. Some were more attractive than others, and he thought most of them were too narrow for Cal’s broad chest. But towards the end of there was a dark brown leather coat. It had wide lapels, and when Vincent held it up against himself it fell to mid-thigh. It was wider than he was, and he turned to show it to Marissa.

“Do you think this would fit Cal?” he asked.

She raised both eyebrows, but looked the jacket over thoughtfully. “I imagine so,” she said. She waved one hand in the direction of the pile of clothes she’d made over a chest in the corner. Vincent laid the coat over the top of the pile.

“Is there something I can do?” he asked, casting his eyes around the room.

“Take those to Giraud, would you?”

Vincent nodded, but Marissa had already turned back to the racks, her focus entirely on the task at hand. He scooped the pile of clothes up into his arms, the jacket still on top. It was an awkward load, not heavy but cumbersome, and it took him a few seconds to realise he could throw the clothes over his shoulder and carry them that way.

Some of them were surprisingly slippery. Holding them tightly to stop them from falling, he went to find the way back downstairs.

**5**

It felt strange to be leaving the city - really leaving it, not for a drop or a pick-up, not to go to a safehouse, but for days on end. Cal found himself staring out of the carriage window as the scenery rolled by. The city was surrounded by farms and rolling hills, a world away from the dry, dusty plains he’d grown up with. Beside him, Mr Dumayne flipped through page after page of parchment, frowning. The pages were dense with small writing in a spiky hand.

Cal could read, but not without intense concentration; looking over Mr Dumayne’s shoulder, he could only make out the odd word hear and there. It didn’t matter, anyway. It wasn’t his job to understand the details of the negotiation, only to make sure Mr Dumayne got through it alive.

They’d been on the road for about an hour. The carriage had slowed to make its way up a particularly steep hill, and looking out of the window to his right, Cal could see dense woodland spreading out beneath them. It went on for miles, cut off only by a ridge of sharp mountains that looked small in the distance. A broad river meandered through the wood, the water flat and grey, reflecting a flat, grey sky.

“Impressive view,” Mr Dumayne said lightly.

Cal turned his head. Mr Dumayne was leaning forward to look out of the same window, the sheaf of papers clutched in one hand. “Yeah,” Cal said. His own village was hundreds of miles south of the city, and this was the north road; it was as far north as he’d ever been.

“Seen it before?” Mr Dumayne asked. Cal shook his head.

“The river is the Lessa,” Vincent said, “the same river that runs through the city. We’re going to follow it, more or less, through the forest and eventually all the way to the sea.”

Cal blinked and glanced out of the window again. The river was far below them, now, but he could make out the faint, tiny shape of a cargo ship. It was weird, after spending so many days of his life loading the things with boxes, to see one so small and far away.

“It’s a long journey, so we stop overnight at Marston. You’ll see some lovely scenery tomorrow - the western mountains are spectacular, and if we time it right, we should be able to see the sun set over them. That’s one of my very favourite views. When I was a child, I used to walk in those mountains with my grandfather, and we’d stop on the way back to the village to watch the sun go down.”

Cal nodded to Mr Dumayne, not voicing the question that had sprung fully-formed into his head: _why are you telling me this?_ Why the soft, pensive voice and the personal details? Cal didn’t understand. And he didn’t know how to respond. Mr Dumayne settled back in his seat, watching Cal for another long moment and then looking back down at his papers.

“That sounds nice, sir,” Cal said uselessly.

Mr Dumayne moved the front page to the back of the stack and didn’t look up. “It was,” he said.

Cal, not knowing what was expected of him, turned his attention back to the view.

*

They arrived at Marston an hour or so after sundown. Cal stretched hugely as soon as he stepped out of the carriage - they’d stopped once for lunch, and once a couple of hours later to relieve themselves, and had been trapped in the carriage for a long time since then. It might be lavishly appointed, but it still felt cramped when you’d been stuck in it for four hours straight.

Then he turned his attention to helping the driver - he’d introduced himself as Brodie - with their bags. Mr Dumayne had persuaded Cal to leave most of his belongings at the city house, so Cal had only one bag with him, mostly filled with the new clothes he’d been given. Mr Dumayne, on the other hand, had four bags and a trunk that Cal helped Brodie carry up to their shared room at the Marston inn.

The barkeep obviously knew Mr Dumayne well, because they were greeted warmly by the landlord and her husband, and showed up to a very fine room: it was all space, a wide, soft bed against one wall, and a view over the Lessa, which was much broader now than it had been in the city. When he was done with the bags, Cal stopped and gazed out of the window at the water for a little while.

“Cal?”

He turned. Mr Dumayne was standing in the doorway. “Yes, sir,” he said automatically.

“They’re serving dinner downstairs. Are you hungry?”

Cal was. He followed Mr Dumayne downstairs, puzzling over the way he was acting. He couldn’t help comparing Mr Dumayne to Kevin. Kevin, too, had given Cal things. Then again, they’d been lovers. And by the end, it had been clear that nothing Kevin did had been because he really loved Cal. It had all been… politics. A way of keeping Cal in his place.

Cal had hated him, by the end.

But he couldn’t work out what Mr Dumayne wanted. Was this another trick, to buy Cal’s loyalty with carefully-planned kindness? It had to be, really. There wasn’t another option.

He shouldn’t have taken this job.

*

Dinner was served by a young man of about Cal’s age, but with far more breeding. He was slim and quick to smile, and he caught Cal’s eye immediately, but that wasn’t relevant; Cal was working. If he’d been alone, he might have tried to strike up a conversation.

To Cal’s surprise, he ended up in conversation with Mr Dumayne.

He hadn’t expected to be dining with Mr Dumayne at all. In the privacy of the city house, sure, that was one thing. But out in public? Where he could be seen having dinner with a servant? Cal didn’t know much about politics, but he couldn’t fathom what Mr Dumayne was thinking. Brodie was dining in the kitchen, like all good servants should, and Cal had planned on eating there himself. Brodie seemed like a good sort, with a brusque cheerful kind of friendliness that reminded Cal of Joe. And yet here he was, dining with the young master himself, like a dog called up to eat at the farmer’s table. He had about the same manners.

“Where do you hail from, Cal?” Mr Dumayne asked.

He hadn’t heard of Cal’s village - not a surprise - but he’d knew more about the general region than Cal had expected. Then again, it was obvious that Mr Dumayne was educated. He’d know far more about the world at large than Cal had learned at his provincial temple school. He was _clever,_ too, just as Kevin had been; men didn’t get far in a business like the Dumaynes’ unless they had something really special to offer. Not even if they were family. Cal knew that Mrs Dumayne, the head of the family, had two sons. Kevin had told Cal that they were rich, pampered layabouts.

To the untrained eye, Cal supposed, Vincent Dumayne looked like one too. But Cal had already seen him at work, had caught glimpses of the cool, sharp mind that he was hiding. He didn’t kid himself that he could see this man’s true colours - Mr Dumayne was far too good for that - but he’d at least understood that there were layers. And probably far more layers than Cal would ever see.

He was surprised by the next question, though. “That’s a long way from the city. What brought you so far?”

“Er,” said Cal uncertainly.

He’d been a lot younger the last time he’d been asked that question. A lot more trusting, too. It had been Kevin who’d asked, and Cal had poured out the whole awful story: Fin’s death, the awful months after, the money he’d stolen. Kevin had known exactly how to hold it over him, too, but then Kevin did that with any secret. Cal glanced up at Mr Dumayne, who was watching him with an expression of curiosity.

“Usual story,” he said gruffly. “I was a farm boy. Thought the city sounded glamorous, so off I went.” It was a slice of the truth, anyway, and Cal knew enough lads who’d started that way. It was a common tale among the dock workers.

Mr Dumayne nodded and returned to his meal. His plate was still nowhere near full enough, but he’d taken somewhat more food than he had the previous night and was making slow but steady progress. Cal still felt a bit embarrassed about how forward he’d been the previous night - stacking Mr Dumayne’s plate with food, as if he was a starving urchin - but Mr Dumayne hadn’t even mentioned it. Cal stabbed a piece of chicken with a fork and put it in his mouth, an attempt at table manners in public.

“I tried to leave home once,” Mr Dumayne said. Cal looked up at him, surprised; why would you want to leave a life like that? “I was twelve. One of my mother’s lackeys found me before I’d got as far as the city gates.”

“Why?” Cal asked bluntly.

Now it was Mr Dumayne’s turn to look surprised. He paused, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. “Because - “ he said, and there was a long pause. “Because I wanted to see the world. On my own terms, not ferried about in one of my mother’s carriages.” He smiled, and if Cal wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of sadness in it. “I know better now.”

“Know better than what?”

It could all be a trick, Cal reminded himself. Kevin still worked for the Dumaynes; that hadn’t changed, and it wasn’t likely to. Mr Dumayne might be in a different branch of the family business, but that didn’t mean Vincent hadn’t learned everything he could about Cal. The things he’d told Kevin in the dead of night when no one was listening. His wish to be away from all of this, out of this life, out of the city… It would be so easy for Mr Dumayne to play on that if he wanted.

Mr Dumayne glanced at Cal’s face. A wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows, and then was gone as he looked away. His fork scraped against the plate, and he swallowed a mouthful of food, and he didn’t say anything at all.

**6**

Vincent did not sleep soundly that night.

He’d never been good at sharing sleeping space. Cal had unrolled his bedroll on the floor and been asleep in five minutes flat, leaving Vincent to stare at the ceiling and think. He didn’t know how long he lay there, working through the points of the negotiation in his head. Long enough for it to turn into a string of nonsense words. Cal snored. Loudly.

He must have gone to sleep at some point, because he woke up to grey light. He started and pulled away instinctively: Cal’s hand was on his shoulder. Cal withdrew it instantly, mumbling, “Sorry, sir,” and took a couple of steps back from the bed.

“It’s all right,” Vincent said blearily. “You startled me, I was - dreaming.”

Had he been? He didn’t know. His mind was a jumble of incongruous images covered in a thick blanket of fog. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and swung his bare feet onto the cold wooden floor. There. That was a touchstone of a sort. Not a pleasant sensation, but one that brought him unhappily back to reality.

“Is there coffee?” he asked.

Cal looked up in the act of swinging a bag onto his back. “I’ll find out, sir,” he said.

The _sir_ was beginning to get on Vincent’s nerves. Cal was only - what? Two years younger than he was? Three, perhaps? Close enough in age to have come up together, had the circumstances been right. Close enough that Vincent looked at Cal and saw a lad his own age, someone with whom he might have a few things in common. _Sir_ felt very strange.

Maybe that was why Vincent liked him so much.

Still; it was the done thing. Vincent pushed his hair back from his face and cast around for the tie he used to put it back. It must have worked itself free during the night and got lost in the covers. He threw back the blanket, then looked up, Cal’s name on his lips - but Cal had gone, taking the bag with him.

Vincent sighed and began to search the bed.

*

There was no coffee. Cal brought a pot of tea up to the room as compensation, and looked so sheepish about the whole affair that Vincent hadn’t the heart to snap at him. The tea was thin and mostly flavourless; Vincent drank it all, missing the strong bitter flavour of coffee and the boost it always gave his mood. He was still feeling irritable as he dressed, and more so as he combed the knots out of his hair. His mother repeatedly begged him to cut it, but he refused - he was fond of the way it looked when it hung to his shoulders.

He went downstairs, but Cal was nowhere to be seen, so he breakfasted alone. Yvette had loaded his plate - before his injury, the sight wouldn’t have daunted him, but now his stomach turned slightly at the sight of so much food. He sighed and picked up a slice of bread anyway. _How do you eat a dragon,_ indeed.

He said a long, effusive goodbye to Yvette, and tipped her with similar effusiveness. When he finally emerged from the inn, Cal was leaning against the side of the carriage, deep in conversation with the new driver. He was wearing the jacket Vincent had found for him in the attic, backpack slung over one shoulder. Vincent had interrupted them mid-joke, it seemed; Cal was grinning, arms folded across his chest, and the grin brought out dimples Vincent hadn’t known were there.

He stopped and - for only a moment - allowed himself to admire the view.

That was long enough for Cal to notice him. “Sir,” he said. His voice rang out across the courtyard and echoed slightly. “Are you ready to go?”

“I believe so. Are we prepared?”

“Yes, sir.”

Vincent nodded. As he crossed the courtyard, Cal opened the carriage door and held it open like a footman. Vincent found himself smiling as he climbed in: a small, private smile, not for sharing. He didn’t know why; Cal was behaving as he was supposed to. Behaving like a servant. Like a man who should call Vincent _sir._

But as Cal settled in beside him, and he called out to drive on, he couldn’t shake the warm feeling.

*

“So this it,” Vincent said. He stretched his arms up as far as they would go, an attempt to dispel the soreness in his back. They’d been on the road for nine hours, with only a short break for food at midday, and Vincent was exhausted.

Beside him, Cal looked up. It wasn’t quite sunset yet; the sky had turned pink at the edges, but the sun itself was still hovering above the mountain-tops, making the snow shimmer. As a child, Vincent had thought it the most beautiful spot in the world. He was a little better-travelled now, but it remained a favourite. He felt unaccountably nervous waiting for Cal’s reaction.

Cal said nothing for a very long time.

Eventually, Vincent cross-legged on the grass and untucked his shirt to examine the stab wound. It was a reflexive, nervous action. It was a little sore - another consequence of long hours in the same position, he supposed - but not egregiously so. He poked it experimentally and discovered it was no more tender than usual. Good. He’d been told to look out for tenderness as a sign of trouble.

The poking caught Cal’s notice. “Sir?” he said, a note of concern in his voice. “Everything all right?”

“Perfectly,” Vincent said. He flashed Cal an insincere grin, and Cal’s frown deepened in response. “Really, I’m quite well.”

“Your wound’s not bothering you?” Cal came to crouch by Vincent, hands between his knees. “Sir, if you need a healer we shouldn’t play games.”

“I don’t.”

“Will you let me see?” Cal asked.

Cal got to his knees and leaned forward. Vincent lifted the hem of his shirt, and Cal peered at the site of the injury, then touched it with slow, careful fingers. Vincent found he was holding his breath - probably against the potential of pain, though Cal caused very little. In fact, his touch hurt less than Vincent’s own had a few moments before. Clearly Cal had skills that Vincent hadn’t imagined.

After a few minutes, Cal withdrew his hand. “I think it’s all right,” he said in a thoughtful tone. “It doesn’t look like it’s gone bad. Was it hurting?”

“Not much. We’ve been stuck in the carriage all day. I’m sure that’s all it is.”

Cal nodded and drew back. “You’re probably right. You should keep an eye on it though.”

“I will.” Vincent folded his hands behind his neck and lay on his back, looking up at the sky. “Cal, come and sit next to me.”

“Yes, sir,” Cal said, and the word twanged uncomfortably again; but Cal moved to Vincent’s side, and that was the important thing. Vincent stretched his legs out in front of him, pointing his toes, and the gentle pull soothed his aching muscles.

“Relax,” Vincent said. Cal didn’t move. “I mean it. Relax. Nothing’s going to hurt us here.” He turned his head to look at Cal; Cal was looking at him, curious and concerned and alert. “I promise. Listen, we’ve been travelling all day, and it’s at least another two hours to Rissing. But we can rest for a while. We have some time, and nothing else to do, and it’s beautiful here, and the sun’s coming down.”

**7**

It was long after nightfall when they reached the town. Cal, dozing against the window, righted himself guiltily when Mr Dumayne said, “Ah, here we are.” He didn’t make a very good bodyguard, falling asleep on the job.

To Cal’s surprise, they drove through the town and left it behind them to follow a road that wound like a snake around a hill. It was only halfway up that Cal noticed the grand house at its top - grander even than the Dumayne house back in the city. The place was vast, and as they approached it Cal realised it sat almost on the very brink of the cliff, looking over onto what must be the ocean. He gaped at the enormous building through the carriage window.

Cal counted three storeys. In the darkness, he couldn’t make out much detail on the house, only that there were lights in many of the windows. It was built of some kind of smooth, grey stone. The carriage drove up a wide path of flagstones and onto a cobbled drive outside the house: Cal could feel it when the carriage started to bump as it slowed. They pulled up by the door.

Cal hopped out onto the running board and reached up to unbind the luggage on the roof while Brodie opened the door for Mr Dumayne. “Leave the bags, Cal,” Mr Dumayne called.

Cal abandoned his task and went to Mr Dumayne’s side. They approached the house together and were admitted by a tall woman who said, “Good evening, Mr Dumayne,” in a low, smooth voice. Mr Dumayne nodded to her, and Cal followed his employer into the grand front hallway of the grand house.

He stood open-mouthed.

He’d never been anywhere so fancy in his life. The floor of the entrance-way was grey-white and gleaming, the walls lit with oil lamps whose glass was decorated in gold and silver patterns. There were several framed paintings of the wall, all of severe-looking women in various ancient styles of dress, and in the centre of the hallway a grand staircase led up to the next floor. Cal could have stood here for hours, taking in all the details, and trying to guess - unsuccessfully - how much it must all have cost. He couldn’t deny it, the effect was beautiful.

A young boy in black scurried up the stairs while Cal and Mr Dumayne waited politely, off to one side. Cal didn’t think he could have felt more out of place in a village of water genasi or kuo-toa. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back, unsure what a good bodyguard did in this situation.

Stand still and stay silent, most likely. Cal resolved to do just that.

“What do you think?” Mr Dumayne asked.

This place was so grand that apparently even Mr Dumayne felt intimidated: his voice was hushed. Cal followed suit. “It’s very pretty, sir,” he said. _Pretty_ didn’t exactly cover it, but that would have to do.

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Mr Dumayne said. When Cal dared to glance at him, there was a small smile on his face. “I hated this house when I was young.”

Cal smiled back and said, “Yes, sir.”

Mr Dumayne said opened his mouth to reply, but at the same moment, a lady appeared at the top of the stairs. She had a lined face and silver hair, which was piled on top of her head in a style you only saw on rich ladies. Her dress was floor-length, and silvery to match her hair.

“Vincent,” she called, descending.

She opened her arms. “Grandmother,” Mr Dumayne said warmly.

He didn’t rush towards her, the way Cal might’ve done towards his own grandmother. He met her at the foot of the stairs, grasped her by both hands, and placed a kiss on each of her cheeks. They embraced, but only briefly.

“Come to the parlour,” she said. “I believe dinner will be served shortly.” She presented her elbow, and Mr Dumayne took it, looking over his shoulder at Cal.

“Come along, Cal,” he said.

Mr Dumayne’s grandmother turned and looked Cal over coldly. “This urchin?” she said after a second. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She raised her voice. “Rose, show him to the kitchen, would you?”

Rose, it turned out, was the woman who’d greeted them at the door. Mr Dumayne gave Cal an apologetic look, but it was nothing to Cal. He followed Rose into a grand dining room, through a small door, and down a flight of stairs.

*

Cal felt a lot more at home in the kitchen. The cook - a small cheerful man who introduced himself as Nick - thrust a bowl of soup into Cal’s hands and told him to sit down. There was thick, dense bread to go with the soup. Cal was starving.

When he was finished eating, Cal wanted to know if he could help, but Nick shooed him away. “Hasn’t your master got bags or something?” he said. “Go and help with those.”

The basement floor of the house was like a maze. Twice, Cal climbed a flight of stairs to find himself stepping into an ostentatious room that he clearly wasn’t supposed to be in; both rooms, thankfully, were empty. The second time, he shut the door firmly and hurried back down the stairs, then pressed his back against the rough stone wall. This place was _huge._

A few moments later, a small girl put her head around a door some way down the corridor. She peered at Cal. Cal smiled at her and she stepped out into the corridor. “Are you lost, mister?”

“Yeah,” said Cal.

The girl smiled uncertainly and glanced behind her. The door was still standing open. She made a motion as if to close it, then straightened suddenly as a voice came from the room behind her. “Dyllis? Dyllis, get back in here! Work to be done.”

“Sorry, mister,” the girl said. She turned back, and a man appeared behind her at the door, putting a hand on her shoulder. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and a tense, harassed look.

“Dyllis, go back in.” She ducked past him and was gone. “What d’you need, lad?”

“I’m trying to find the stables,” said Cal.

*

Brodie was still at the stables, thank the gods. He greeted Cal with a clap on the shoulder and introduced him to the stable boy, a redheaded lad called Gerard. The bags were already long dealt with, so he and Brodie set to helping Gerard clean the stables. Gerard gossiped with them all the while, telling them about the comings and goings of servants Cal had never heard of, never mind met. After they were finished, Gerard took them back to the house.

Clearing up stables was filthy work. Someone had set up beds for both of them in a spare basement room, and provided a bath for each of them, which Cal was glad of. Brodie undressed without any embarrassment and stepped into one of the baths, giving Cal a good view of his muscular back, and Cal followed suit and got into the other one.

He washed quickly, keeping his attention firmly on himself; some men didn’t like being watched, not the way Cal felt like watching Brodie. He was utterly surprised when, after they’d both got out of their tubs, Brodie crossed the room, grabbed Cal by the shoulder, and kissed him.

Cal couldn’t help taking a step backwards, but he put his hands on Brodie’s waist and kissed back enthusiastically. In a few short moments, Brodie had Cal pressed up against the wall and was rubbing hungrily up against him. Cal threw himself into the kiss, enjoying the rare chance at intimacy, and wrapped his arms around Brodie’s waist.

Brodie paused, a hand on Cal’s hip, and then kissed Cal again, deeper and harder. “So you know,” he said between kisses, “I’ve got a wife and kids back in the city.”

Cal hesitated. That told him a lot. As much as he needed to know, he supposed. He never felt good about these snatched moments; worse still when there was someone else in the picture. Given the choice, he’d pick a man who didn’t have a family to go back to, who wasn’t breaking promises by taking to Cal’s bed. But Cal’s relationships had always been glancing, accidental things.

And it was hard, when you were lonely, to resist all this skin. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, pressed his mouth to Brodie’s, and gave in.

**8**

The next three days were long and boring. By day, Cal followed Mr Dumayne from place to place, from dark rooms in the backs of taverns to other fancy cliffside houses. Nights, he fell into bed exhausted, twice by way of Brodie’s.

Mr Dumayne wasn’t a bad sort; not compared to other nobs, anyway. Not compared to Kevin. Cal didn’t think he liked this work, though. He’d seemed tense on the way down, but it had been a good kind of tension, Cal thought. Anticipatory. Now they were here, Mr Dumayne seemed surly and out-of-sorts, as if unhappy with the job he’d come to do.

It didn’t make much sense to Cal.

The work was pretty much what he’d expected: a lot of negotiation. He hadn’t started out knowing the reason why, and a lot of the talk itself went over his head, but some things became clear as the talks went on. The family was in trouble, and Mr Dumayne was here to call in old favours. Cal knew this part of the job well enough from his days with Kevin: stand at the back and look intimidating while Mr Dumayne made careful promises in a low, smooth voice. It was ugly work.

The fourth day began much the same as the previous three. Cal and Brodie - sharing a room, but not a bed - were woken early by a sharp rap on the door. Nick the cook fed them breakfast, after which Brodie departed to tend to the horses and Cal went to make himself presentable for negotiations. He wasn’t summoned to the parlour until an hour later, and when he arrived, Mr Dumayne was sitting in the chair he’d been using for the past three days, staring into the unlit fireplace.

“Morning, sir,” Cal said.

Mr Dumayne turned his head slowly. “Good morning, Cal. Are you well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He rose to his feet, heavily, using the arms of the chair to support his weight. Cal frowned; did Mr Dumayne look a bit pale? There was definitely a faint tremor in his hand as he let go of the chair, but he was steady on his feet and the determined set of his jaw dared Cal to challenge him. “Shall we go?” he said.

There was nothing to be said about it; it wasn’t his place. Cal nodded and went ahead of Mr Dumayne to hold the door, and if Mr Dumayne crossed the room a little more slowly than was normal, Cal said nothing about it.

*

Mr Dumayne refused Cal’s help to climb into the carriage, gripping the door instead with white-knuckled fingers. Cal frowned as he closed the door behind him. The muscles were popping in Mr Dumayne’s jaw as he gritted his teeth, and he had a hand pressed against his belly as if it was hurting him. “Last day,” Mr Dumayne said. His voice came out tense and thin. He swallowed; Cal watched the movement in his throat, worried.

He didn’t call out, only leaned forward to tap the front wall twice with his knuckles. As the carriage lurched into motion, he made an unhappy grunting sound and slid back in his seat. His back hit the wall and Cal turned in his seat to face him. Mr Dumayne’s face had gone ghostly white.

“Sir, are you all right?” Cal asked.

As if in reply, Mr Dumayne doubled over and vomited on the floor.

Cal jumped out of his seat, giving his head a good knock on the roof. He banged on the wall. “Stop!” he yelled.

The carriage didn’t stop. Mr Dumayne made two sick coughing noises, then retched again. Cal banged on the wall again, but the carriage kept moving; in fact, it had sped up, jumping and bumping over uneven ground. That gave Cal pause; shouldn’t they still be on that nice, smooth path that led up to the Dumaynes’ property?

He looked out of the window. They weren’t on the road any more; they’d veered off to one side and were plunging down the rocky hillside. He glanced at Mr Dumayne, who was still leaning over. “Hang on, sir,” he said, and opened the carriage door.

It was a struggle to get onto the running board without falling; the horses were going at a gallop. The wind roared in his ears. “Brodie!” he shouted. “Brodie!”

If Brodie answered, his reply was lost in the wind. Cal edged along the running board, towards the driver’s seat. Brodie was there, at least; Cal had been sure for a second that he’d been thrown off, that their rushing off course was some terrible accident.

It was no accident.

He reached the end of the running board. Brodie’s head turned, and he gave Cal a terrible smile. “Hello, lover.”

“What are you doing?” Cal shouted.

“Little detour,” Brodie said. “Taking Mr Dumayne to see some friends of mine.”

Cal’s eyes widened, and he gripped the side of the carriage to steady himself. “Brodie, you’ve got to stop,” Cal said. “Mr Dumayne’s sick, he - “

“Is he _really?_ ” Brodie showed Cal his teeth. It wasn’t a smile, not exactly; there was no joy in it. The next words came out cold and flat: “That’ll be the poison. Good.”

“You - “ Cal began, but he didn’t really know where that sentence was going. He had to stop this. He had to stop the carriage and get Mr Dumayne to a healer.

“He’s a dead man,” Brodie said, and that was enough.

It was more than enough. Cal felt the world go fuzzy at the edges as he launched himself towards the driver’s seat. For a moment, he thought it would be useless, he thought he’d fall and be left behind, but then his hands connected with Brodie’s shoulders. Brodie fell sideways and Cal managed to get a purchase on the driver’s seat, pushing Brodie further. There was a second of struggle, and then Brodie overbalanced, letting out a yell as his hand slid down the reins and off them. He hit the ground and rolled twice before he was out of Cal’s sight.

Cal had to lean a long way forward to grab the reins; he only held onto his balance by the skin of his teeth. It took a moment, but he got control of the carriage and turned it in a wide circle. He saw Brodie staggering to his feet and kept the horses at a gallop: he couldn’t let Brodie catch up. Mr Dumayne was completely undefended.

It took another minute to get back to the road. The ride got a bit smoother then, but Cal still didn’t dare to slow down. The horses galloped towards the house, and Cal’s throat was tight with panic as he finally made the horses slow down. The carriage wheels screeched on the cobblestones as the horses pulled up short in front of the house.

Cal jumped down, panting. Pain jumped through his ankles when his feet hit the ground, but he paid no attention; he took the two short steps and grabbed hold of the swinging carriage door. Mr Dumayne had stopped retching, but only because he was slumped sideways on the seat, mouth hanging open, unconscious. Cal wasted no time; he scooped Mr Dumayne up into his arms and hurried towards the house.

He barged into the house, backwards because he couldn’t open the doors with his hands; they weren’t free. A gurgling sound was coming from Mr Dumayne’s throat. He heard a noise of protest, and a moment later Rose appeared from behind the door. She opened her mouth, but Cal cut her off.

“I need a healer. _Now._ ”

*

They sent out dogs to find Brodie, but as far as Cal knew, they never did.

Cal had a sharp dressing-down from Mr Dumayne’s grandmother and was sent to the servant’s quarters without even finding out if Mr Dumayne would live. Downstairs, no one wanted him around; Nick gave him a hunk of bread and rushed him out of the kitchen, Gerard told him all the stable work was done. Cal didn’t think that was true, but he couldn’t really argue.

He ended up back in the room where he and Brodie had been sleeping, with nothing to do but look at the walls.

He was summoned to the kitchen for the midday meal, but no one talked to him. Word travelled fast among servants, and Cal had been friendly with Brodie. _More_ than friendly. He supposed it wasn’t surprising, but it hurt, all the same. The same thing happened at the evening meal. Afterwards, Cal made for his room, intending to go to sleep and put this whole wretched day behind him, but a boy was waiting for him by the door.

He was a dark-skinned lad of seven or eight. “Mr Dumayne wants you,” the boy said when he saw Cal.

“Which Mr Dumayne?” Cal asked warily. He’d had one conversation with his employer’s grandfather; the man had seemed all right, much less terrifying than his wife, but Cal didn’t know him well. Was Mr Dumayne well enough to see anyone?

“The young one,” the lad said, “from the city. I’ll take you.”

Cal followed the boy up to a bedroom on one of the upper floors. A woman - not Rose, but with a similar straight bearing and similar clothes - was standing outside a door. She opened the door without a word when Cal approached, admitting him to a large bedroom lit with only a single oil lamp. She shut the door behind him as soon as he stepped inside.

The bed was huge, the kind with four posts and a canopy over the top. The lamp cast a shadow over it, making it difficult to see much; Cal squinted.

“Cal.”

The voice was hoarse and it wavered, but it was definitely Mr Dumayne’s. A wave of relief washed over Cal. “Sir,” he said, and despite the awfulness of today he found himself smiling.

He hadn’t let him die. At least there was that.

“Come here,” Mr Dumayne said. Cal saw movement at the side of the bed: Mr Dumayne’s arm, waving him over. Cal went, and gently took a seat when Mr Dumayne’s hand patted the bed.

The poison had done some damage, that much was clear. Mr Dumayne was still deathly pale. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hand trembled slightly. But he was alive, and Cal was thankful. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

“We appear to be making a habit of this,” Mr Dumayne said.

Cal’s heart sank. Mr Dumayne was right; this was the second time he’d almost died on Cal’s watch. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“You saved my life. Th-thank you.”

“Just doing my job, sir,” Cal said. Not that he was doing it very well. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry I let it get as far as it did.”

Mr Dumayne’s hand flapped on the bed like a dying fish. Cal didn’t know what he wanted, so he turned to the table by the bed. There was water - did Mr Dumayne want some? Cal had lifted the jug to pour when Mr Dumayne said, “No. Give me your hand.”

Cal frowned, but did as he was told.

Mr Dumayne squeezed his hand, but gently, because there wasn’t much strength in his muscles right now. “I don’t see how you could have known.”

“It’s my job to know. And - “ He hesitated, not sure whether to confess. But he had a weakness. It was better if Mr Dumayne knew what it was. He wouldn’t be hired again - not after a disaster like this - but at least he could tell the truth. “Me and Brodie, we were…”

Mr Dumayne squeezed his hand again, and he stopped talking. When he looked at Mr Dumayne’s face, he was wearing a small, cynical smile. “Did you think I didn’t know?”

Cal looked away guiltily.

“You didn’t hire him,” Mr Dumayne said. “No one hired you to find out about him. If anyone’s to blame for letting him get away with this, it’s me. Don’t blame yourself. You did exactly the job you were employed for.”

That had been a long speech; Mr Dumayne coughed weakly, and this time when Cal turned away to pour water he didn’t object. He even sat up to take a few sips while Cal watched him anxiously.

“Sir,” he said.

“Come now, Cal,” Mr Dumayne said. He sounded better, but his hand shook as he made to put the water glass back on the table; Cal took it from him. “I think you’d better start calling me Vincent, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Cal said obediently. Vincent raised one eyebrow, and met Cal’s eye, and despite himself, Cal smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

**9**

“ _Wait,_ ” Cal whispered. He was this close to holding Vincent in place against the wall and clapping a hand over his mouth, but thankfully he didn’t have to; Vincent nodded and held still. Cal held his breath and listened.

Two more pairs of feet approached the intersection and paused. He heard Vincent take in a small, quick breath and looked down. Vincent had drawn the pearl-handled dagger and was holding it ready. Cal put a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, mostly for reassurance, and waited… waited… The feet started up again, jogging in the same direction as before. They hadn’t turned the corner.

Cal let the breath go. Vincent’s shoulder dropped under his hand, relaxing slightly, but not too much. They weren’t out of danger yet.

“Now?” Vincent said, and Cal nodded.

Vincent was quicker than Cal, so Cal stood back and let him scamper up the ladder to the grate above. He put his hands on the grate and glanced down at Cal, who listened for a moment, then nodded. He couldn’t hear anyone else coming.

The grate made a loud metallic scrape as Vincent loosened it, then worked it free. The sound made Cal tense again, but no one came, and as Cal watched Vincent slid the grate to one side and disappeared through the hole. Cal looked over his shoulder one last time and climbed the ladder himself.

At the top, he heaved the grate back into place. Vincent was bending over, hands on his shins, getting his breath back. Before the poisoning, Cal had only seen Vincent in action once, and that had ended in a stabbing, so he had to take Vincent’s word that since Rissing, he’d never been quite the same.

There wasn’t much time to get their breath, though; who knew how soon someone would work out the route they’d taken? Cal put a hand on Vincent’s arm and Vincent took the hint, straightening up and letting Cal lead him down the broad street until they found an alley to duck into. There, Vincent pressed his back against the wall and panted. Cal rested against the opposite wall, still on alert. They wouldn’t be safe, really safe, until he got Vincent home.

“It’s almost as if someone wants me dead,” Vincent said.

Cal had to laugh at that. This was their fifth job together, and the fifth murder attempt they’d dodged. At least this time, Vincent wasn’t injured. “Yeah,” he said. Miss Starling, or someone else with good breeding, might’ve had a funny comeback, but Cal wasn’t good at that.

“Also,” said Vincent. “New rule. No more meetings in the sewers. It stinks down there.”

“Yeah, next time I want you in a room with one exit.”

“Mm, that worked out well last time.”

Last time they’d paid for a room in a tavern. An upstairs room, in the merchant district, with a single door that led down to the busy bar. In theory, it should have been as safe as houses. In practice, he’d finished up climbing out of the window with Vincent thrown over his back when it went bad.

Cal was starting to think the Mancinis really didn’t _want_ to talk.

Vincent leaned forward to get a good view of the street they were hiding from. “D’you think we lost them?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” said Cal. “Can’t be too careful, though. Come on, let’s get you home.”

*

He took Vincent home by a winding route, all alleys and backstreets. There was no carriage waiting for them this time; the drivers were a liability. So were the horses. The last two jobs, Cal had taken Vincent into the city and back home again on foot.

The Dumayne house, enclosed in its high iron fence, was a welcome sight. Lunette, the night gatekeeper, admitted them with her usual poise, nodding deferentially to Vincent and shaking Cal briefly by the hand, and Vincent invited Cal up to his room for a drink.

That still put Cal on edge a bit. Kevin had used alcohol as a weapon. He’d got Cal steaming drunk after their very first job together, then cornered Cal and seduced him rapidly, and that pattern of work, heavy drinking and sex had quickly become a habit. Vincent wasn’t like Kevin - he’d never made any kind of move on Cal, and Cal didn’t think Vincent tended his way, anyway - but the after-work alcohol made him a bit nervous all the same.

Tonight, the drink in question was some thin, blueish spirit that Vincent said his grandmother had sent from Rissing. Cal sniffed it experimentally before tasting it; it smelled strongly of sugar and alcohol.

“Don’t worry,” Vincent said, “I’m _fairly_ sure it’s not poisoned.”

Cal glanced at Vincent’s face, alarmed, but Vincent was grinning over his own glass. Cal smiled back uncertainly and took a careful sip of the drink. He made a face.

“Don’t like it?” said Vincent.

“Too sweet.” Cal swallowed the mouthful and put the glass down on the low table between them.

“Ah, this is my favourite.” Vincent took a gulp of his drink and savoured it before swallowing. “Is there something you prefer?”

“I usually go for beer,” said Cal.

“I could have some sent up, if you like.”

Vincent began to get up, but Cal held up a hand. “No thanks,” he said. Vincent sat back down with a confused expression on his face. Cal looked at him, trying to get what he was feeling into words. What came out was: “You don’t have to court me.”

Vincent’s eyebrows went up. “I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t have to - Listen. You pay my wages. That means I come, I work for you, I do my part. If you want my loyalty, you’ve got it, I don’t need all this - “ He waved his hand. “ - _extra_ stuff. You don’t have to work that hard to keep me.”

There was a long period of silence. When Vincent finally spoke, it was in a small, hurt voice. “Cal, I was hoping we could be friends.”

Cal took a deep breath. “We’re not friends,” he said. When Vincent didn’t immediately respond, he ploughed on: “We can’t be friends. You don’t want me for a friend, that’s not my job. I’m your bodyguard. It’s my job to keep you alive and get you home in one piece. That’s it. If we were friends, it’d only get in the way of me doing my job, and that puts your life in danger.”

“I don’t see how,” Vincent said. He leaned forward, resting his knees on his elbows, his brow furrowed.

“Put it like this,” Cal said, leaning forward too. “I care whether you live or die because you pay me to. That’s clean and simple. If we’re friends… then I care about _you,_ and that gets complicated.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Cal clasped his hands together, fumbling for words. “Because a friend would care about your feelings. Say we need to escape somewhere and the best way’s through the sewers. I know you hate that. As a bodyguard, I don’t care. We go the safest way and that’s that. As your friend, I might try and find another way to spare your feelings, and that could get you killed.”

“I see,” said Vincent, and then in a more distant voice, “I see.” He stood up, stretched, and let his hair out of its tie. It fell in a sheet to his shoulders. “I suppose I’d better pay you,” he said.

That didn’t seem to need an answer, so Cal didn’t give one. Vincent went to his desk and rummaged in a drawer. Cal stood. He felt awkward, but also relieved; they’d cleared the air, and things would be better now. Vincent came to where Cal was standing and pressed two gold coins into Cal’s palm.

“Thanks,” Cal said, shoving the coins into his belt pouch.

“Thank _you, _Cal,” Vincent said. He turned away. “Well,” he said over his shoulder, “goodnight.”__

__His tone was light and unconcerned, but Cal could hear the hurt underneath it. “Vincent,” he said, “for what it’s worth - “ He hesitated._ _

__“Yes?” said Vincent._ _

__“You’re a good man. And you’re a good man to work for. You’re kind and smart, and I’ve worked for this family a few years, I know they don’t always go hand in hand.” Vincent put his head on one side, accepting the compliment. “I think - if things had been different, we might have been friends.”_ _

__Vincent nodded, pressing his lips together, but didn’t say anything. Cal slipped into his jacket - the beautiful leather jacket Vincent had given him - and cast around for his backpack. It was in a corner near the door, and it jangled when he put it on._ _

__“Goodnight,” Cal said._ _

__Vincent nodded again. Cal glanced over his shoulder as he left the room, but Vincent had already turned away._ _

__*_ _

__“Mackie.”_ _

__Cal turned his head in the direction of the voice. The source was a group of men, who were coming towards him. They looked for all the world like a posse of men who’d just finished work, but it was far too late at night for that, and despite the men’s slouchy postures they were moving surprisingly fast. Cal couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard his name, not now, but he dropped his head and picked up his pace, hoping to duck off the main street before they caught up with him._ _

__“ _Cal_ Mackie,” the voice carried on, in a loud, friendly tone that Cal thought was an act. “I thought it was you.”_ _

__Cal hunched his shoulders, as if against the cold, and kept walking. The footsteps behind him got louder, and a few scant feet before the entrance to the alleyway he’d been aiming for, a hand clapped him hard on the back. “Good to see you!” the man said. “Won’t you join us!” And in the space of time it took for the man to say that, Cal was surrounded. The man’s arm came around his shoulder, and he was hustled into the alleyway._ _

__There were seven - no, _eight_ of them. Three were carrying short clubs, and Cal thought he saw the flash of metal on another man’s hand. Knuckles? Cal was the biggest of the lot, but that didn’t always matter; certainly not when it was eight to one. The men formed a loose ring around him, and the leader - a short man with messy curls and a broken tooth - faced Cal head-on._ _

__“Where’s that pretty friend of yours, then? You two seem joined at the hip these days.”_ _

__“Don’t know who you mean,” Cal said, but of course he did._ _

__“Course you do,” the leader said. “ _Vincent._ ” He pronounced the name with great disgust, sneering, and Cal felt a surge of irritation. He shifted on on his feet, ready to react. “You do some work for him, don’t you?”_ _

__“Might do. What about it?”_ _

__“Knew it,” said a voice from behind him, clearly ready for a fight, but the leader cooled him off with a _Sssh._ Cal’s right hand closed into a fist in his pocket. The leader glanced left and right, then cocked his chin at Cal. Cal met his eye, not wanting to look intimidated._ _

__“Why d’you do it?” the leader asked. “Why d’you work for that little bastard?”_ _

___Bastard._ The wave of irritation was back, making Cal want to take his fist out of his pocket and clock the little sod in the jaw. Vincent was - Vincent had been good to him, that was all. “Money,” Cal said flatly._ _

__“Good money, is it?” the leader said._ _

__“Bet it is,” said the man to Cal’s left, and another one said, “Let’s get it.”_ _

__So that was the cover, was it? They must work for the Mancinis, Cal thought; they just didn’t stop, did they? The irritation blossomed into anger under Cal’s skin and he pulled his fists out of his pockets, ready to defend himself, just in time._ _

__The leader threw the first punch, but Cal was ready for it. He ducked out of the way of the fist and kept going in the direction of the dodge, grabbing the man to his right with one hand and punching him with the other. The man went down instantly, but two other pairs of hands grabbed his jacket at the same moment._ _

__One of the clubs swished through the air, but Cal narrowly managed to avoid it. Another of club cracked across the back of his shoulder, propelling him forward, and he used the momentum to grab hold of another of the men and fell him with a knee to the groin._ _

__The remaining six closed in on Cal, trying to crowd him towards the alley wall. Cal resisted, dodging another swing of someone’s club and trying to push forward. The leader threw another punch, and this one connected with Cal’s stomach, sending him reeling backwards. The men hanging onto the back of his jacket let go, surprised, and Cal span on the balls of his feet to take one of them out with a right hook. The man caught Cal in the temple with his knuckles as he went down._ _

__That left five. A club glanced against the side of Cal’s knee. It hurt like hell, but Cal didn’t fall. He turned again, facing his escape route: the far end of the alley. There was a way up onto the rooftops there, and if he could make it that far, he’d be away. There were two men in between Cal and the escape route. Cal shoved one of them to the floor and kicked him in the stomach for good measure; his club rattled against the cobblestones._ _

__The leader was still in the way. Two clubs connected with Cal’s back, and he grunted in pain, but pain wasn’t going to stop him. He grabbed the leader’s shirt, lifted him off his feet, and tossed him in the direction of the alley wall. He didn’t get quite that far, but he did hit the ground arse-first with a yell of pain._ _

__Cal turned menacingly on the other three._ _

__Two clubs clattered to the ground. The men began to back away, and Cal gave the most terrifying grin he could muster. The smallest of the men turned and ran back to the street, leaving Cal facing two men. One was a fair-haired youngster who Cal didn’t recognise. But standing to his left was Nate Barstow. Cal’s jaw dropped._ _

__Nate worked for _Kevin._ And Kevin worked for the _Dumaynes.__ _

__Cal backed away quickly from Nate and the youngster, stepping carefully over one unconscious man, then another. They didn’t move to follow him. When he reached clear ground, he turned tail and ran for the end of the alley._ _

__“That bastard’s a dead man!” the leader called after him. Cal’s heart thumped in his chest as he mounted the ladder and hurried up it, already planning in his head a route back to the Dumaynes’ house._ _

__**10** _ _

__Cal wasn’t being paid for this. Not for the beating he’d taken, not for the men he’d knocked down or unconscious, not for the brass knuckles and wooden clubs. Not for picking his way across rooftops and running down filthy backstreets, his bruises thrumming in time to the speeded-up rhythm of his heart. He wasn’t being paid for this, and he didn’t care._ _

__Front and centre in his mind as he ran was Vincent. _That pretty friend of yours,_ the ringleader had called him, and Cal was reminded of his speech earlier that evening. _I’m not your friend._ Didn’t seem to matter now, did it?_ _

__No, it didn’t matter at all._ _

__He paused in an alleyway near the edge of the trade district to catch his breath, folded over on himself, hands on his knees. It was a hard run. It was made harder by the need to glance over his shoulder the whole way, but they’d never been following him. No one was behind him now, the alley empty but for someone’s washing, grey-white garments hanging on line a couple of storeys above._ _

__Cal’s chest heaved with each breath, his bruises starting to throb now as the first rush of battle-fervour started to wear off. A bead of sweat trailed down his cheek. He brushed it away with two fingers, but when he looked at them, the fingers were red. Blood._ _

__Gingerly, he probed the tender spot on his temple, and again his fingers came away bloody. The knuckles must have cut him there. He didn’t think the cut was very wide or deep, and anyway he couldn’t do much about it now, so he rested his back against the wall, feeling the sore spot on his shoulder complain._ _

__“Come on,” he said to himself, and straightened up again. The Dumayne house wasn’t far away now; turn two more corners, hop over a wall, down a lane so narrow Cal could hardly fit. Back to the rooftops from there, and drop into the rich district from the top of an inn. The way from there to the house wasn’t well-concealed, but then it didn’t need to be; just being on those clean-swept streets was a kind of protection. Cal could saunter up the street, and now he knew the right people to nod to, he wouldn’t be bothered. Another perk of working for Vincent, he supposed._ _

__He sucked in a big breath and began to run again. The entire journey only took him a few more minutes, and by the time he got to the big iron gates of the Dumayne house, he was breathing almost normally. Lunette gave him long, hard look, then turned the key in the lock. “You’d better come in.”_ _

__“Thanks,” said Cal, ducking through the small opening she’d left between the gates. She shut them behind him with a clang. Cal walked partway up the path to the front door of the house, then thought better of it and went round the back. He wasn’t with Vincent or Miss Starling now._ _

__Lunette’s sister Ariane watched the back door; they were a double-act. Ariane gave Cal a penetrating look, too, but let him through. “Is he expecting you?” she asked._ _

__“No.”_ _

__Ariane frowned, then glanced upstairs with a look of concern. “You’d better go up. He seems to be having a bit of an evening.”_ _

__That set alarm bells ringing in Cal’s head. “Any strangers come in?” he asked. A professional question; Ariane shook her head. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Cal thought of Vincent’s wide, unbarred window, which often stood open. He stepped past Ariane, who gave him a friendly pat on the arm as he went._ _

__Sucking in his breath, Cal jogged through to the front of the house and pounded up the stairs._ _

__*_ _

__The door to Vincent’s rooms was closed. Cal knocked on it, first gently, then with a bit more force. No response. “Vincent?” he called, and then when there was no answer, “Vincent!”_ _

__Nothing. He tried the door; it was unlocked, so he opened it - slowly, to give Vincent as much warning as possible, but there was still no answer from the other side. Cal’s mind was racing: he should have thought of this, he shouldn’t have left Vincent alone. Not even in the house. He should talk to Miss Starling about getting him out of the house, maybe out of the city, and maybe for good. Someone _had_ been here, had -_ _

__Beyond the door was a disaster. Vincent’s desk had been overturned, parchment everywhere, ink spilled on the floor. A trunk in the corner had been ransacked, one curtain torn down, a vase of flowers smashed. Cal gaped at it for a moment before registering that Vincent was curled on his side in the middle of it all, knees drawn up to his chest. His hair hung over his face in a sheet, hiding it._ _

__“Vincent?” Cal said._ _

__Still nothing. The alarm bells were clamouring now; Cal took a moment to shut the door behind him and then crossed the floor to crouch at Vincent’s side. “ _Vincent_ ,” he said. He reached out to shake Vincent’s shoulder and Vincent’s body jerked. A moment later, Vincent shoved the hair away from his face._ _

__He’d been crying._ _

__“Cal,” said Vincent. His tone was one of utter surprise._ _

__“Didn’t you hear me calling?”_ _

__“I… thought…” Vincent said, but he trailed off there. He used the flat of one hand to push himself up into a sitting position. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was you.”_ _

__“What happened here?” Cal asked._ _

__“What - ?” Vincent began, and then he blinked rapidly, as if seeing Cal properly for the first time. “What happened to _you?_ ”_ _

__Vincent gestured in the vague direction of Cal’s face. Cal lifted his own hand, waving it towards the wound on his temple, and Vincent nodded minutely. “It’s not important. I’m more worried about this.”_ _

__“Cal, if you need a healer, we shouldn’t play games.”_ _

__Cal was startled. He’d said the same words himself at - when was it? Oh yes - at that clearing in the woods, on the way to Rissing. He’d been worried about Vincent’s wound going bad. Vincent had thrown his own words back in face, as if it meant the same thing, as if they were… equals._ _

__They weren’t. “It’s nothing,” Cal said. “Vincent, I need to know what happened here. Who did this? Did they hurt you?”_ _

__“Wh - No, Cal, there was no intruder. I’m not injured.”_ _

__Vincent got up. Cal got up with him, still frowning deeply. He still couldn’t piece this together. If there’d been no intruder, what was all of this?_ _

__“Would you like a drink?” Vincent asked, turning away - towards the desk, of all things, as if it wasn’t on its side. “Let me at least send for someone to deal with that head wound. I think the cook knows a little first aid.”_ _

__“My head’s fine,” Cal said. “I don’t want a drink, Vincent, I want to know what happened to you.”_ _

__“I’m perfectly all right.” Vincent’s tone was breezy, but Cal wasn’t fooled; he hadn’t forgotten the look on Vincent’s face. He hadn’t forgotten the tears. “Really, you came all this way. Stay for a glass of beer.”_ _

__As if Cal was an old friend visiting from out of town. “ _Vincent._ ” Vincent turned to him and sighed. Cal could see the hurt plain on his face, but he pushed on anyway. “I didn’t come here for my health. I came here because someone threatened you tonight. I need to know what happened.”_ _

__Vincent’s shoulders dropped in defeat. “All right,” he said, “but I really do need that drink.”_ _

__*_ _

__Cal righted two chairs and the little table they’d set the liquor on before. Vincent retrieved the bottle - miraculously, it hadn’t been smashed - and two clean glasses, then busied himself filling them while Cal waited patiently. He passed a glass to Cal, and Cal took a dutiful sip. It was still far too sweet._ _

__“I’m curious who threatened me,” Vincent said, in what Cal thought of as his rich-boy voice: slow, relaxed, as if only vaguely interested. Cal knew by now that that covered a ravenous hunger for information. Vincent always had to _know.__ _

__“We’ll get to that,” Cal said. “First I need to know what happened here.”_ _

__“I suppose I did say I would,” Vincent said._ _

__Cal just met his eyes, unflinching. Vincent knocked back his glass of liquor in two rapid sips and put the glass back on the table. “So,” he said. “My position in this family is… shall we say precarious, at best.”_ _

__Cal nodded and leaned forward to listen._ _

__“I am not in the line of succession,” he said. “I wouldn’t be anyway, being male, but my parentage is questionable at best. My mother has been confined to hospital since I was eight years old, and my father - well, my father isn’t important. Shall we say, I am considered to come from a… defective line.” Vincent broke off to pour himself another glass of liquor and offered the bottle to Cal. Cal shook his head. “I’m tolerated, because I’m a successful negotiator, and because I’ve acquired certain allies in more, er, secure positions. One of those allies was Antonia Mancini.”_ _

__Cal frowned. “The lady who tried to kill you?” he said. “Our first job?”_ _

__“The same.” Vincent took a sip of his drink, watching Cal with careful eyes. “She was a good friend to me, over the years. We worked together on a number of projects, and we usually managed to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. She was very intelligent, and she was also - “ Vincent paused. “I hesitate to call her kind. She could be ruthless when the occasion called for it. But she also knew the advantage of cultivating friendships, and the risks of making idle threats. I learned a very great deal from her.”_ _

__“Then she started a war,” Cal pointed out._ _

__“I don’t believe that was her decision. I believe she was acting on orders from above. And since Antonia was her mother’s second-in-command, those orders could only have come from one place. She was sent to ambush me. And now - “ Vincent gulped the rest of his liquor and looked at Cal across the table. His expression was utterly miserable._ _

__“And now?” Cal asked._ _

__“And now,” Vincent repeated. He didn’t go on for a long moment, and Cal waited. Vincent looked away from Cal, out of the window, and then to the floor. He didn’t look up as he finally said, “Now Antonia’s dead.”_ _

__**11** _ _

__Cal had gone very still, his mouth falling open as he processed the information. A moment later, he snapped his mouth shut. “Where is she?” he asked._ _

__Vincent blinked. “What?”_ _

__“D’you need help with the body?”_ _

__It was Vincent’s turn to gape, but he recovered quickly. “I didn’t _kill_ her. It wasn’t us, it didn’t happen here.” Cal nodded mutely. Vincent sighed, tucked his hair behind his ears, and stood up. Cal stood with him. “I got the message about an hour ago.”_ _

__It was here somewhere; Vincent could still recall, with sickening clarity, the black looped letters on the yellowish-white page. Not his aunt’s handwriting - of course not - but that of her valet. It wasn’t often that his aunt communicated with him directly, but this had been… he felt the bile rising again in his throat… _good news.__ _

__A _peace_ offering. Vincent turned away from Cal sharply, feeling rage surge through him again._ _

__“Then I don’t understand,” said Cal._ _

__Vincent folded his arms, trying to contain himself, and took a slow, cleansing breath. “She was killed by her own people,” he said. “That order must have been given by her mother, too. It’s the only explanation.”_ _

__“Her -?” Cal looked as shocked as Vincent had felt when he’d first read the news. “Her mother? Why?”_ _

__Apart from that first sip, Cal hadn’t touched his Entariel. It was an Elven liqueur; expensive, yes, but Vincent had a weakness for it. He finished his second glass quickly and reached for the bottle to pour himself another glass. When he put it down it rattled against the table. His hands were shaking. “As a peace offering,” he said. “To us, to my family, to end the war. She started it, so killing her ends it.”_ _

__Cal said nothing, only watching Vincent with surprisingly gentle eyes, waiting for him to go on._ _

__Vincent put the glass down and clasped his hands together and flexed them. “It’s so - “ He struggled for the word. “ _Deceptive._ Because the implication is that Antonia was acting on her own behalf. That she… transgressed and was punished. That is not what happened. She was set up.” _ _

__Here was the crux of the issue, the thing that had pushed Vincent over the edge. “She was set up to fall - to _die._ Sacrificed like a piece on a game board. By her own mother.”_ _

__“And if her mother could do that to her…” Cal gestured with his glass, a small crease appearing between his blond brows. “Your mother could do that to you.”_ _

__Vincent huffed and sat back in his seat. “Oh, it’s not my mother I’m worried about,” he said. “My mother’s always been sentimental, but then she can afford to be. She’ll never inherit. It’s my aunt Isabelle who runs the family business. _She’s_ the problem.”_ _

__The crease between Cal’s brows became a full-blown frown. “Your mother’s in hospital,” he said._ _

__“Yes.” Vincent leaned forward to pick up the glass of Entariel. His hands were still trembling, but it wasn’t so bad, really; he could get the glass to his mouth without spilling. He made himself sip the drink slowly, enjoy the taste before swallowing it. Across the table, Cal was still frowning deeply._ _

__“Vincent,” he said. “If - if there was no fight here then I still don’t understand. What happened? Here in this room.”_ _

__“Me,” Vincent said softly. “What happened here was me. I did this.”_ _

__*_ _

__Vincent put his drink down and got up. Cal came up with him - a servant’s move, Vincent thought, a servant never sat while his master stood. It felt wrong. Like this world, the world where Cal worked for him, was the wrong one. Like they should be… friends, though Cal had made his position on that very clear._ _

__“Why?” Cal asked._ _

__“I was angry,” Vincent said. “And very frightened. I - I still am.” Vincent put his hands on his hips and made himself survey the room. There was so much debris. It would be a lot of work to clear it all up, and Vincent felt exhausted at the thought. He closed his eyes briefly, but when he opened them, nothing had changed._ _

__“So you tore your rooms apart.”_ _

__Vincent turned to Cal and gave him a small smile, though it wasn’t exactly sincere. “Yes.” As he glanced around the room again, his eye fell on the note his aunt had sent him. He crossed the room and picked it up, though he didn’t dare unfold it. “There’s something else,” he said. “My aunt had me woken to deliver this message. It’s not… it’s news, but it wasn’t critical that I read it tonight instead of this morning. I don’t pretend I’m important enough that Antonia’s death was arranged to scare me, but - “ He turned the note over in his hand. “She certainly made good use of the opportunity.”_ _

__Cal took two steps to stand in front of Vincent. He was only an inch or so taller than Vincent, but he was so broad that Vincent always felt he could disappear under Cal’s shadow. It was an odd kind of safety. Cal took the note from Vincent’s hand. “So this is a threat,” he said._ _

__“Of a sort, yes.”_ _

__Vincent looked up at Cal. Cal’s face had gone hard and stony again, what Vincent thought of as his bodyguard face. He shoved the note into his pocket without looking at it and put one hand on Vincent’s shoulder. The hand felt solid and reassuring._ _

__“You know I’ll protect you,” Cal said. Vincent stared at him. “I mean, I can’t tell you anything about the politics, that’s your area. I don’t have the brains for it. But I can look after you, I can keep you alive. That’s against all comers, even your own family.”_ _

__“Cal,” Vincent said softly._ _

__It would be so easy, from here, to rest his head against Cal’s chest. Vincent resisted the impulse, because if friendship was out of the question -_ _

__If friendship was out of the question, anything else was out of the question, too._ _

__“Thank you,” he said instead._ _

__Cal’s hand squeezed Vincent’s shoulder. “I won’t let them hurt you. So don’t worry, all right?” The hand slid around Vincent’s arm, from his shoulder to his back, and Cal’s body closed the few inches of space between them, until Vincent’s head had nowhere to go but onto Cal’s shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, Cal’s other arm closed around Vincent’s waist, and Vincent closed his eyes. It was so comforting to be held._ _

__Cal smelled surprisingly good. Vincent supposed that was partly the leather of the jacket, partly Cal’s natural scent. Vincent put one arm around Cal’s waist, letting his hand rest in the small of Cal’s back, and then had to pull back sharply because his body was responding in a predictable manner. It was a very long time since he’d touched someone so intimately. Cal took a hurried step away, a reaction to Vincent, and Vincent felt flushed with embarrassment and nerves._ _

__“Sorry,” said Cal, “that was - “_ _

__“It’s quite all right.” Vincent flapped his hand languidly in the air. Louche-young-nobleman would have to do, though he didn’t think Cal quite bought the act any more. He looked around the room ostentatiously and kept the act up anyway. “I suppose I’d better get on with tidying up.”_ _

__“I’ll give you a hand,” said Cal._ _

__*_ _

__Cal stayed all that night. There was no sleep to be had: instead, they set about tidying Vincent’s room, righting the overturned furniture, sorting through the strewn clothes and papers, clearing away smashed glass._ _

__It was Cal, to Vincent’s surprise, who brought up the topic of what to do next. Vincent had been turning the subject over in his mind, but he hadn’t come to any specific conclusions by the time Cal said, “You should get out of the city.”_ _

__“I beg your pardon?”_ _

__“If that was a threat, that means they’re coming for you,” Cal said, pushing Vincent’s desk back against the wall. “That means you should go. Somewhere they won’t find you.”_ _

__Vincent was folding a pile of clothes to put them back in the trunk. “I can’t run. It looks weak.”_ _

__“Better weak than dead.” The desk slid into place and Cal straightened up. “I don’t think you should take risks right now.”_ _

__“And if I run, they’ll chase me,” Vincent pointed out. “It’d be a clear sign of my disloyalty. And leaving the city without my family’s knowledge would be an exceedingly difficult proposition. Besides - I’m useful to them, too. I don’t believe my aunt is sending people after me, as much as she wanted to put me in my place.”_ _

__“So running’s as much of a risk as staying put,” said Cal._ _

__“Indeed.” Vincent picked up another shirt and laid it flat on the floor. “I think the best course of action is to convince them of my loyalty,” he said. “That means staying here, taking the assignments I’m given, and doing as I’m told.”_ _

__Cal nodded, then crossed the room to push Vincent’s wardrobe back into place. The wardrobe was not far behind Vincent, and Vincent felt a small shiver at Cal’s proximity. “I suppose that means more work for me,” he said._ _

__“I hope so,” Vincent did._ _

__He looked up at Cal at the same moment as Cal glanced back at him. Their eyes met, and again Vincent was surprised by the gentleness in Cal’s eyes. He was physically tough, Vincent knew, and invaluable in a fight, but Vincent prided himself on his ability to look below the surface. Underneath that rugged exterior, Cal had a tender heart._ _

__That was what had made Vincent want to be his friend._ _

__Cal’s temple was still bloody, and Vincent had observed that he was moving a little more stiffly than usual, favouring his left leg; he’d taken a beating, that much was clear. “You never told me what happened to you,” Vincent said._ _

__Cal turned back to the wardrobe and closed its doors before answering. “It was some of Kevin’s boys,” he said._ _

__“Kevin Carroway?” Kevin was a minor operative at best; he was one of the family’s enforcers. He did the dirty work when negotiators like Vincent had made insufficient progress. Hadn’t Cal worked for him at one point? “What was their problem with you?”_ _

__“Their problem’s with you,” Cal said gruffly, and Vincent blinked. “They attacked me, but it wasn’t really for me. It was a message for you, they threatened your life.” He shoved the wardrobe back into place. “I think there’s more going on here than you think, if someone’s paid Kevin’s crew to have a crack at - “ A pause. “At us.”_ _

__“You may be right,” Vincent said. He paused in his folding to think. “Cal…”_ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__He glanced back at Cal, who was leaning against the wardrobe now, watching him. “We’re a team,” he said, and that wasn’t quite adequate, but it would have to do for now. “I mean, if you’re right, and if they chose you as the messenger. It means that even if you were to stop working with me, that wouldn’t set you free. We’re a team whether you like it or not.”_ _

__“Never said I didn’t like it,” Cal said, and followed that up with, “I wouldn’t have stopped working for you in any case. Don’t need Kevin’s boys to tell me we’re bound up together.”_ _

__“Then we’re agreed,” Vincent said. He kept his voice light and unconcerned, back to the young-nobleman act again, though he felt an almost-tangible wave of relief. Having Cal firmly on his side was… well, it was pleasing, to say the least. “We stick together.”_ _

__“Course we do,” Cal said._ _

__Vincent stood up and extended his hand. Cal took it; his hand was warm, solid, a little sweaty on the palm, and his grip was firm but not crushing. They shook once. For several long seconds, neither of them let go, and Vincent felt very reluctant to pull away. “Of course,” he said softly._ _

__A strange look passed over Cal’s face, and for one vertigo-inducing second Vincent thought everything between them was about to change. Then Cal set his jaw, gave Vincent’s hand a friendly squeeze, and released it._ _

__**12** _ _

__The room was almost back in order. Vincent was sitting at his desk, sorting papers back into their usual habitats, while Cal swept the remains of a vase into one corner. Something would have to be done about the puddle of ink on the floor, but Vincent hadn’t a clue what. Cleaning had never been his job._ _

__It was incredible how many of these papers had been rendered irrelevant in a single evening. Vincent found his thoughts continually wandered back to Antonia, to the unfairness and cruelty of her murder. It was more than the implied threat from his aunt, more than the stark reminder of his own position. Antonia had been his friend, and he was going to miss her._ _

__He shoved another sheaf of papers onto the pile he’d earmarked for burning. More notes on the diamond theft he’d been trying to negotiate with Antonia the night the war had started. He glanced across at Cal and was surprised to see that he’d stopped sweeping. Instead, he was leaning on the broom handle, brow furrowed, deep in thought._ _

__“How bad d’you think this is?” Cal said._ _

__Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Not so bad,” he said. “Not now, anyway. We’re almost finished, aren’t we?”_ _

__“No, I don’t mean it like that, I mean - if your aunt found out you were this upset. How bad would it be?”_ _

__“Oh.” Vincent put his current handful of papers down, turned to face Cal, and crossed his legs. “I hadn’t considered that,” he admitted. “Fairly bad, I suppose. She’d know her message had the intended effect, anyway.”_ _

__“D’you want her to know that?”_ _

__“ _No._ ”_ _

__“So you need a cover story.” Cal leaned the broom against a nearby wall and took a seat in the chair he’d been using before. He’d come close enough that his nearness set Vincent’s nerves pleasantly on edge. “We’ve done well, you’re right, we’ve cleaned up most everything, but a few things got broken and you should be able to say why.”_ _

__“You’re right.” Beyond Cal, the bottle and glasses were still sitting on the table, Cal’s glass full, Vincent’s half-full. Vincent suddenly wanted a drink. “I haven’t any idea what,” he added. What, apart from a tantrum like the one he’d thrown, could have caused destruction like this? He supposed the main things they had to explain were the broken vase and the spilled ink; almost everything else was already back in place._ _

__He went to sit opposite Cal, picked up the bottle of Entariel, offered it to Cal. Cal took it and filled Vincent’s glass. That wasn’t what Vincent had meant, but he said, “Thank you,” anyway. He picked up the glass and took a sip, rolling the liqueur around his mouth to get as much as possible out of the taste. Cal waited, his eyes on Vincent, saying nothing as Vincent slowly finished his drink._ _

__Eventually Vincent put his glass down on the table. Cal lifted up the bottle, but Vincent shook his head; he’d had more than enough for one evening. “What do you think?” he asked._ _

__Cal frowned thoughtfully again. There was a long silence, and then Cal said, “How about a woman?”_ _

__“A _woman?_ ”_ _

__“Yeah. Nice-looking boy like you, you must be somebody’s mister.”_ _

__Vincent felt his eyes go wide in surprise. “Um, actually, no.”_ _

__“Really?” Cal said. The look he gave Vincent was as much appraising as it was surprised, Vincent thought, and it set Vincent on edge again. It was high time, he thought, that he admitted this, at least to himself: he wanted Cal. Wanted to feel those arms around him again, wanted to stay there for a long time. Wanted to -_ _

__He shifted in his seat. This line of thought was doing him no good. “Actually, I, er. I don’t…” He supposed he might as well admit it. “I don’t usually lean in that direction.”_ _

__Cal blinked rapidly, nodded, and said nothing. Vincent couldn’t read his expression, and that was just _odd_ ; he’d been trained to be good at this. But he couldn’t tell whether Cal’s wide eyes and slightly-parted lips indicated surprise or distaste. He couldn’t tell whether he was imagining the slight softening of Cal’s features that might suggest a certain amount of interest. He probably _was_ imagining that. Cal was a master of dispassionate competence, the consummate professional._ _

__“Is there someone who’d pretend?” Cal said. “Any sort of arrangement like that?”_ _

__“Not with anyone who’s alive,” Vincent said, thinking of Antonia once again. He got to his feet, and without thinking about it, pressed a friendly hand into Cal’s shoulder as he passed. Did he imagine that Cal’s muscles tensed at his touch? “I suppose,” he said, taking his seat at the desk again, “that I’d better keep thinking about it.”_ _

__*_ _

__The sun came up long before Vincent expected it. He only noticed when a bar of light faded in on the floor at Cal’s feet, turning the toes of his brown leather boots a golden colour. They’d been sat on the floor at the foot of Vincent’s bed for, well, it must have been hours. Vincent was tired, but he still wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep, and beside him Cal was yawning repeatedly._ _

__They still hadn’t come up with a good cover story. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but Vincent’s mind was a fuzzy grey blank. He pushed the hair out of his face and glanced over at Cal, who was covering another yawn with his hand._ _

__“We need to sleep,” Vincent said. He put a hand on Cal’s knee, then thought better of it and withdrew it quickly. Cal glanced at him as he got to his feet. He stretched, expansively, and looked longingly at the bed. “Do you want the bed?” he asked Cal._ _

__Cal blinked up at him. Vincent could see him stifling another yawn. “No,” said Cal eventually. “Don’t be silly, bed’s yours.”_ _

__Cal used the bed to support him as he got up and walked through from the bedroom to the sitting room. It took Vincent a few seconds to get himself together enough to follow Cal, and when he got there, Cal was unrolling his bedroll on the sitting room floor._ _

__“At least come through to the bedroom,” Vincent said. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep - not even this tired - but for some reason he wanted Cal close. Well, truth be told, he wanted Cal to share his bed, but that was highly unlikely to happen. Cal looked up at him and said nothing, only began to roll the bedroll up again. Vincent crouched to help, but Cal waved him off brusquely. Vincent retreated to the bedroom and began to unbutton his shirt._ _

__Cal busied himself with the bedroll, not looking at Vincent even for a moment as he changed from his shirt and trousers into a nightshirt. Vincent, on the other hand, couldn’t resist stealing a few glances as Cal unlaced his boots, unbuttoned his trousers, and climbed into the bedroll. Vincent already knew that Cal had strong, muscular legs - he was strong and muscular all over - but it was definitely pleasing to see them. Cal rolled onto his side, facing away from Vincent, and Vincent curled up in his bed. He closed his eyes, though he still didn’t think he’d be able to sleep._ _

__“Cal?” he said a moment later._ _

__“Yeah.” Cal’s voice was thick and sleepy._ _

__“Do you think - “ Vincent swallowed hard, not quite able to complete the thought. Except the thought wouldn’t go away. “Do you think they’ll kill me?”_ _

__He heard Cal roll over. When he opened his eyes, Cal was propped up on one elbow. “I won’t let them kill you,” he said. “Promise.”_ _

__“We’re not always together,” Vincent pointed out._ _

__“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” said Cal._ _

__“I suppose it is.”_ _

__“Sleep on it,” Cal said gently. “I’m not going anywhere right now, am I?”_ _

__Vincent smiled. “True.”_ _

__Cal sank back down into the bedroll and rolled over again. Vincent closed his eyes and pulled the covers around himself. He listened to Cal’s breathing get slow and wondered if he’d get any sleep at all. His mind was still racing. All the implications of what had happened to Antonia, of how his aunt had chosen to break the news. He still didn’t have a good idea what he should do now, except carry on with business as usual, try to prove he was useful. It would probably be counter-productive to talk to Marissa._ _

__“Cal?” he said again, but he was only answered with a snore._ _

__*_ _

__Vincent did sleep eventually, but not much. He was awoken by a gentle shake of his shoulder, and from the speed and pressure he could identify the shaker before he’d even opened his eyes. “Marissa,” he said, struggling up into a sitting position._ _

__“Good afternoon,” Marissa said in her clipped voice._ _

__Vincent glanced past her. On the floor, Cal was beginning to stir in his bedroll, but wasn’t fully awake. She hadn’t woken him, then. He scrubbed at his eyes and blinked several times at Marissa. “What time is it?”_ _

__“Five minutes past three. You missed lunch.”_ _

__Vincent nodded and swung his legs out of bed. The wooden floor was cold under his feet. “What is it?”_ _

__“Wash and dress, will you?” said Marissa. “I’ll have a bath drawn. Mistress Dumayne wants to see you.”_ _

__“Aunt Isabelle?” Vincent said. His stomach was growling; but when Aunt Isabelle summoned you, you didn’t stop for breakfast. He dragged his hair behind his head as he stood up and fumbled for a tie with his other hand. Marissa gave him a look, and he knew what it meant without a second thought. He wasn’t her adolescent nephew now. He was an operative, and as such he ought to show the proper respect._ _

__Marissa said nothing more, simply stepping over Cal’s body as she left the room._ _

__“Are you awake?” Vincent asked._ _

__“Nearly,” Cal said. His voice was fuzzy with sleep. He rolled over and looked up at Vincent, bleary-eyed, and Vincent suppressed a smile. There was something indefinably attractive about a man in the process of waking up. “Was that Miss Starling?”_ _

__“Yes,” said Vincent._ _

__Cal sat up and threw back the top of his bedroll. “Should I go?” he asked, and Vincent paused in the act of tying his hair, thinking._ _

__It took him a second to come to a conclusion. “For now,” he said. “I have to see my aunt.” Cal’s eyes widened as Vincent finished tying his hair. “Expect a message from me tomorrow evening. Oh - I should pay you. For extra services last night.”_ _

__“I didn’t ask for money,” Cal said._ _

__“You don’t have to, Cal. I’ll pay your due.”_ _

__Vincent walked through to the sitting room and went to his desk. There was still a sizeable stash of gold coins in the drawer - his operating budget, more or less. He fished out three pieces and turned; Cal stood in the doorway between the two rooms, still in his shirt and no trousers, looking sleepy and bewildered. He had to lift Cal’s hand, open his fingers and place the coins in Cal’s hand._ _

__“I don’t need the money,” Cal said. “You paid me for last night.”_ _

__“I paid you for protecting me in the negotiations,” Vincent said. “This is for - “ He stopped mid-sentence, not sure he could articulate what Cal’s value had been to him overnight. Instead he gestured vaguely around the room. “You know what it’s for.”_ _

__He squeezed past Cal, back into the bedroom, and Cal followed him. He waited, lounging on the bed while Cal dressed and packed away the bedroll, and shook Cal’s hand at the door. Cal still looked faintly bewildered as Vincent shut the door behind him. Servants came up with the bath a few minutes later; Vincent washed and dressed rapidly._ _

__His aunt’s office was in the east wing of the house. It was a long walk through echoing, empty corridors to get there, and Vincent could feel his nerves getting more and more frayed as he came closer to that office door. Eventually, he reached it. He nodded to Simone, his aunt’s valet, who waited outside the door. Simone nodded back, and Vincent knocked on the door._ _

__“Come,” his aunt’s voice called, and with a trembling hand, Vincent opened the door._ _


	4. Chapter 4

**13**

Cal was at a loose end. It was too late to look for work - on winter days, the docks and temples had hired all their workers on by sunup - and too early to rent a room at an inn, but Cal felt vulnerable out on the street. Not only did he have five gold pieces burning a hole in his belt pouch, for all he knew, Kevin’s boys were still on the prowl.

Five gold pieces meant a few days of luxury for Cal: a soft bed, good food. He ended up at a table in the far corner of the Dog and Bucket with a mug of beer he’d paid for with the last few coppers he had. It didn’t do to flash your wealth in a place like this. The Dog and Bucket was a worker’s alehouse in the trade district, and not, as far as Cal knew, friendly with any of the city’s big families. That made it a pretty safe place, as far as Cal was concerned, and he didn’t have to worry about Vincent’s messenger finding him until tomorrow night.

Vincent hadn’t really left his thoughts since he’d left the Dumayne house this afternoon. He was worried. He’d been working for Vincent a month and a half now, and as far as he knew Vincent hadn’t been summoned to see Mistress Dumayne in that time. Cal himself had never met her - of course not - but he’d heard the stories. They were inescapable. Some said she was a sorceress, that sorcery ran in Dumayne women’s blood. There were wilder stories, too. One of them said that she’d made a pact with a dragon, years and years ago, and could breathe fire.

Whether Mistress Dumayne breathed fire or not, Cal hoped Vincent would come out of that meeting unburned.

In a place like this, no one bothered a large man drinking alone. Other nights, he might have been glad of some company, especially from the sort of ordinary labouring people Cal might have been one of himself, if his life had taken a different turn. If he hadn’t been sucked into a criminal night job all those years ago. He always felt apart from working folk now. It was the blood on his hands.

Tonight, though, he was glad to be alone. He needed to _think._ How did you protect a man from his own family? They might be backstabbing and murderous, but they were still Vincent’s blood. Did that make a difference? Cal didn’t know, but he still thought Vincent’s best bet was to run far, run fast, and run _now._ The Dumaynes were ruthless bastards, and Vincent had been right about that message. That had been Mistress Dumayne flashing her teeth.

And it didn’t take much to remind Cal how big her teeth were. She had money and power - and something like a hundred people worked for the Dumaynes across the city. Her influence was almost impossible to escape within the walls. Outside them…

Well, they might stand a slightly better chance.

That thought brought Cal up short, making him pause with his mug halfway to his mouth. When had he started thinking of himself and Vincent this way? Yeah, sure, they were a team, so they’d said the previous night. But it was a working partnership, not a - He couldn’t quite find the word he wanted. They weren’t - they didn’t - they didn’t _belong_ to each other.

Cal threw back the last of his beer and left the mug on the table. He needed some air.

*

He didn’t feel too safe on the streets, even though the trade district was a lot quieter than the slums. A lot less rough, too, though fights broke out in alehouses like the Dog and Bucket now and then. It wasn’t like the violent pubs that were dotted in between the crammed-together houses and flophouses of the slums, where people were dirt-poor and most of the time drunk on cheap beer. The slums was where families like the Dumaynes found a lot of their cheap muscle. It was where they’d found Cal.

He walked through the streets briskly, aiming for another inn on the other side of the district. There was a cold wind tonight, and it brought with it a sharp, fine rain: winter was gearing up. In another two weeks or so, they’d have thunder and heavy rain that turned the whole city a uniform grey. Another month, and the rain would turn to snow. Cal usually looked forward to winter; there was extra work as temples and businesses hired people on to clear the streets of snow. And he liked the cold. Back in his home town, all those miles south, winters were harsh but pretty, the dusty plains covered in a uniform white blanket. It was the only time he’d liked the look of the place.

Here and now, he was glad of the jacket Vincent had given him. It kept the rain off his shirt, though it still made a cold trickle down the back of his neck. Without the jacket, a walk like this would have left him shivering; and the look of it helped Cal, too. It meant that a posh inn like the Silver Swan was a bit less likely to turn him out on his ear, and the Swan had the best rooms in the trade district, and Cal had money to spend. So he trudged up the hill with the rain blowing in his face, the pub’s sign - the swan, picked out in silver paint on a plain wood background, was old and showed signs of age - a beacon as he approached it.

He was carefully thinking of anything but Vincent as he climbed that hill.

As usual, there was little noise at this end of the trade district. It bordered one of the richer parts of the city, a place where the diplomats, officials and high-level priests were billeted. At the end of the street a high wall marked the border, and a priestess stood guard at the gate. Cal didn’t get anywhere near her, but the sight of her put him on guard. In his line of work, you tried not to be noticed by priestesses. He veered off to the side several yards before the gate and pushed open the heavy wooden door of the Silver Swan.

Like most posh inns, the Swan had a hushed, sombre atmosphere. Cal closed the door behind him and surveyed the room: several heads had risen to look at him, but one by one, they took him in and went down again. The Swan wasn’t like a regular tradesperson’s pub, not like the Dog and Bucket, packed with rowdy patrons and ready to catch fire at any moment. The patrons here were smartly dressed, alone with a glass of wine or in groups of two or three. They talked in soft voices, or read heavy-looking leather-bound books, or made hasty letters on pieces of parchment. It was a good place.

He’d stayed here three times since he’d started working for Vincent. The first time, he’d almost fallen foul of the landlady’s hard appraising stare, but a half-elf boy who’d been tending bar had taken pity on him. The next time, the landlady had allowed him to stay, though she’d kept an eye on him to make sure he didn’t start a fight; he still looked like a commoner, even if he was wearing an expensive leather coat. Now, he reckoned, he was a known quantity. The landlady gave him a curt nod as he approached the bar.

“Need a room?” she asked.

“Please.” Cal fished a gold piece from his belt pouch and handed it to her across the bar, keeping it concealed in his hand as he did so. Even in a posh place like this, he still felt wary of flashing the little wealth he had. The landlady whisked it under her apron and turned to yell for her bartender. The half-elf boy appeared through a door behind the bar, cleaning a glass with an off-white rag.

“Show this gentleman to his room,” she said.

The boy - his name was Tyrin - nodded and, leaving the glass and rag, ducked under the bar. Cal followed him up to the top floor, where a tiny window looked out over the temple district to the west. “Hot meal and a bath, sir?” Tyrin asked, hovering at the door.

Cal shrugged out of his backpack, and it clanked against the floor. Tyrin, still hovering, raised his eyebrows at the noise. He was small and round, the opposite of the elves you sometimes saw through lighted windows in the richer districts, only his starkly yellow hair and pointed ears giving away his elf side. “That’d be nice,” Cal said. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Tyrin turned away, then back. “You’re a strange one, you know?”

Cal raised his eyebrows.

“You look like you sweep the streets - apart from that jacket. And that backpack says you’ve got nowhere steady to live. Bet you never unpack it all the way. But you’ve got money.” Tyrin put his head on one side. “Sometimes, anyway. S’pose I shouldn’t ask where you get it from.”

“You shouldn’t,” Cal said, letting his face go hard.

For a second, Tyrin looked scared. He came back from it quickly, though. “I’ll get that meal started for you. Sir,” he said, and took off, closing the door behind him.

The room was posh. There was even a table and chair in one corner; Cal supposed that was so you could write letters, if you had ink and paper and people to write to. He didn’t, so he hung his jacket over the back of the chair and sat down on the bed. After a second, he put his head in his hands.

*

Cal woke suddenly in the middle of the night. He didn’t remember having a bad dream. In fact, filling his head when he woke was the memory of a _good_ dream, the kind that usually had a sweet but messy ending. He lay utterly still for a long moment as the dream-images flared and shifted in his head. Long hair brushing his shoulders, smooth bare skin under his hands. A mouth pressed up against his, a hand -

He hadn’t made a mess yet. But, Gods, he wanted to.

The worst part was he knew exactly who’d been in that dream. Cal had never seen his face, or heard him speak, but Cal hadn’t needed either of those to know. He knew by now the pattern Vincent’s breathing made, the way it sped up and got harsh under pressure. He knew the soft noises Vincent made sometimes when he was sleeping. He’d had a dozen small glimpses of Vincent’s bare legs and back as Vincent changed, could imagine the texture of his face, the sharp angles his bones made, the slow, thoughtful way he’d kiss. And he knew, from last night’s embrace, the exact way that long hair tickled his skin as it fell.

The rest had been a jumble of sex memories. The feel of hands on him, teasing and exploring. Hot breath against his neck, fingers pressing into his behind. The taste of sweat on skin.

He’d had dreams like this before, even featuring Vincent, but they hadn’t been so - clear-cut. He’d told himself it was a combination of things. His own loneliness, his frustration. The fact that, in a few superficial ways, Vincent looked like Kevin, and that in itself let out a flood of memory. It was the leanness, the long black hair, the tapered, aristocratic fingers.

Kevin had danced around it for weeks - around Cal’s lust for him, around the spark between them. Looking back, Cal could see that the whole dance had been knowing. It had been designed to drive Cal wild with desire. Vincent, he thought, was dancing too; but Cal couldn’t tell if it was the same kind of performance. If Vincent, like Kevin, thought he could buy Cal’s loyalty with sex.

Kevin had been right, of course, but Cal was a bit wiser now.

The thing was, if Vincent was doing that same knowing dance, Cal didn’t want it. He didn’t want to be falling for it all over again. He didn’t want to want Vincent, not if Vincent was another Kevin; but it was getting hard to deny that he did. If they were bound up together - and they were - then part of it was that Vincent had crawled under Cal’s skin. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the soft way Vincent sometimes said his name and nothing else. Here and now, under the covers and burning up with lust, even imagining Vincent’s voice made him tremble.

As he closed his eyes, the flood of images rushed back, tantalising and flustering him, and at last he gave in to his body’s need. It didn’t take long to satisfy himself. He wiped up the mess with a rag from his backpack and afterwards sank back into the soft bed with a sigh, and in the contented haze that followed, a fantasy came to him. In his fantasy, Vincent was curled up at his side, that long hair covering Cal’s shoulder, an arm thrown across Cal’s stomach. He was asleep, and Cal had an arm around him, protecting him, just as he’d promised.

It could never happen, of course, and that knowledge gave Cal a surprising jolt of pain.

He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the feather pillow, but it didn’t change anything. That image, more than anything else, told Cal the truth. He’d been fighting it off, denying it, but when he imagined happiness, it was Vincent he pictured by his side.

He was in love, and by all the Gods, that meant trouble.

**14**

In the end, the message Vincent sent was very simple. He’d thought of explaining all of it in a note - the meeting with his aunt, the upcoming assignment, his gratitude to Marissa - but even with a loyal messenger, the chance it would be read was too great. And woven through a long letter, inevitably, would be his feelings for Cal. So the note he pressed into Freddy Talbot’s hand that evening only read, _Come tonight. We have a job._

He put off dinner and waited anxiously in his room, reading over the complicated papers his aunt had given him. Much of the information was knowledge he’d had already, or gleaned from the odd telling detail, but his aunt’s paperwork described the full picture. There were a number of aspects he hadn’t quite understood before, hadn’t had the access to grasp. The Mancinis had withdrawn from the diamond theft now - another peacemaking concession. Vincent wasn’t sure if he was being brought into the inner circle or being given enough rope to hang himself with.

Perhaps that was up to him.

It took Cal over an hour to arrive. That was… unusual; normally if Cal was summoned on the hour, he’d be at the house by the half-hour. Then again, normally Vincent sent Marissa with the carriage. Marissa was on her own out-of-town business tonight, and she had command of the carriage when she wanted it. Cal would have had to come by foot tonight, likely along one of his back-alley routes. That took time. Nonetheless, Vincent breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he heard Cal’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Come,” he called when Cal’s knock came at last, trying to pull a cloak of professionalism over the raw emotions that had suddenly surfaced all over his skin. The door came open and Cal stepped through it, closed the door behind him, all business. Vincent had to restrain himself from leaping to his feet and throwing himself at Cal. He said, “Good evening,” as coolly as he possibly could.

This was utterly ridiculous.

“Evening,” said Cal. He hovered at the door, as usual, until Vincent waved him into a chair. “So what’s the job?”

“We’re going west,” Vincent said, “to Woodhaven. We’re to make an exchange of goods with a contact of my aunt’s there. It should be a fairly simple operation.”

The important word in that sentence was _should._ Vincent didn’t believe for one moment that it would be simple. After all, it wouldn’t be a very good test of Cal’s competence if it were. He glanced up at Cal, who was frowning slightly, his mouth downturned.

“Should?” said Cal.

Vincent gave a small smile. “The merchandise we’re exchanging is… quite valuable.” That was quite the understatement. The box which was currently sitting on Vincent’s desk was worth more than this entire house. “It’s obviously important that we don’t draw attention to it, or we’re likely to meet trouble along the way.”

“What is it?” Cal asked.

“I’ll show you.” Vincent got up and went to his desk. Cal followed, stood beside Vincent at the desk, close enough that Vincent felt hunger for touch claw at him. He resisted it, and instead reached for the box.

It was small enough: the kind of box you might keep a set of thief’s tools in. Oak, hand-carved, with an unostentatious iron clasp holding it shut. Vincent fumbled with the clasp, unsnapped it, and gently lifted the lid. At his side, Cal sucked in his breath appreciatively.

The box was filled to the brim with tiny, glittering diamonds.

*

“Where did you get them?” Cal asked.

“From my aunt,” Vincent said, and Cal gave him a look. He smiled. “They’re stolen. That’s all I know. We’re to exchange them with a woman called Evard in Woodhaven. She’ll give us…” He glanced up at Cal, who was still staring at the diamonds as if mesmerised. “I’m not sure exactly what it is. A scroll, I believe.”

“A scroll worth all these diamonds?”

Vincent shrugged and snapped the lid of the box shut. “I suppose it must be a spell.”

“Must be a big spell,” Cal said.

“Mm.” Vincent pushed the box to the back of his desk and sat down, pushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. He picked up the sheaf of papers and laid them on top of the box. It was a poor concealment, but it would have to do. Something this valuable should really be locked away, he thought, and preferably in an iron box with magical protection. Why had his aunt given it to him yesterday? Was it to see whether he’d bolt with the merchandise, another test? “We leave in the morning,” he said. “It’s a long job. Five days to Woodhaven, five days back.” There were inns along the way, but they’d need to spend at least two nights camping in the forest. Camping didn’t really agree with Vincent’s constitution, but he’d have to cope.

“We’ll be fine,” said Cal. He put a hand on Vincent’s shoulder and Vincent closed his eyes, letting himself relish the touch, even if only for a moment. Cal squeezed once and withdrew the hand. “But something this valuable, don’t you want more people?”

“I only want you.” The words were spoken before Vincent had thought through the implications, and apparently Cal had caught the double meaning: when Vincent looked up at him his eyes were wide. “I - er. What I mean is…”

In an ideal world, Vincent thought, this would be where Cal stopped and kissed him. In the absence of such a happy distraction, Vincent stood up, accidentally kicking his chair backwards so it made a jarring noise as it scraped along the floor. “It’s actually a bit more complicated than that,” he said. He lifted the chair carefully and put it under the desk where it belonged. “My Aunt Isabelle is… somewhat dubious about the quality of your work. I disagreed strongly with her assessment, and Marissa thankfully vouched for your competence. This mission is… a test.”

“She wants to test me?” Cal said. He looked terrified, and well he should; it was Vincent’s fault, really, that Cal had come to his aunt’s notice at all. That was likely to have consequences.

“Yes.”

Cal walked back to his chair and sat in it heavily. “And I pass it by getting you to Woodhaven and back.”

“And delivering that scroll, yes,” said Vincent. Cal sighed heavily and looked away from Vincent, glancing out of the window at the cityscape beyond. He held his tongue for a few moments and then gave in to the impulse: “You should turn me down,” he said softly. “Go.” He turned back to the desk, pulled open the drawer with his operating budget in it, and blindly grabbed a handful of gold coins. “Here. No good can come of this for you, and you know that as well as I do. Get out of the city, go back to that farm of yours.” He held out the handful of money to Cal, and Cal looked at it placidly, unmoving. “Disappear,” he said.

Cal said nothing for so long that Vincent felt awkward and exposed, standing with a fistful of coins, waiting for Cal to leave him. Eventually, Cal said, “No.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“ _No,_ ” said Cal. “You said it. We’re in this together, like it or not. I go where you go. Put that away.” When Vincent didn’t move, stunned, Cal stood, took the money from Vincent’s outstretched hand, and dropped the money into the drawer. He shut it hard and it made a little thump as the end of the drawer hit home.

“Cal - “

Cal put his hand on Vincent’s arm, and Vincent once again entertained the thought that Cal might be about to kiss him. But again, Cal didn’t. Instead he said, “If you gave me money and I went, what’d they do to you?”

“I could say you stole it.”

“Think that’d help?” Cal’s eyes had gone tender again, and it was all Vincent could do not to let out a sigh. Cal’s hand dropped to his side and he went back to his chair, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands. “So,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

*

An hour or so later, Vincent summoned dinner, though it wasn’t really food he was hungry for.

It was odd. Until now, he’d been able to glance at his desire for Cal and dismiss it in a second; it had been a passing thing, flashing and then fading, easy to ignore. But somehow in the past day and a half it had shifted, and now it was a constant background hum, buzzing in his ears even when he was occupied with something else. As they discussed their ideas for how to execute the mission, Vincent kept noticing things about Cal that pulled that hum into the foreground, drowning out all other thoughts. Cal’s thick, square hands, labourer’s hands. The warmth in his blue eyes. The fair curly hair on his chest, just visible above the top button of his shirt. No, it wasn’t just odd; it was _ludicrous._

Cal ate and talked and seemed largely oblivious to Vincent’s increasingly ravenous lust, but still Vincent couldn’t seem to shake it off. Every time their eyes met, it felt like his blood surged in his veins; if Cal smiled at him, Vincent felt dizzy for a moment with pleasure. With the desire was mingled a harsh buzz of frustration. By the time they’d finished eating, Vincent was ready to scream.

Instead, he sent for the servants to take the dinner table away and bring more wine. Maybe enough alcohol would soothe him.

He poured a generous glass for himself and the same for Cal, then lounged back in his chair by the window and closed his eyes to sip, hoping he might at last start to relax. It wasn’t as if he’d been unable to relax in Cal’s company before now; though some of their time together had been in life-threatening situations, they’d also spent time breaking bread together, stuck in carriages for hours at a time, sleeping in the same room. Why was it now, when he knew they’d barely be apart for the next ten days, that his infatuation was beginning to overwhelm him? Maybe it was the prospect itself.

Breathe. It was good wine - not the very best the family could afford, which was stored away in the cellar under house, inaccessible except by Vincent’s aunt and her personal valet, but good. Vincent savoured it and tried to forget that Cal was here. Maybe then his heart would stop hammering as if it were trying to burst out of his chest. Maybe then his nerves would stop shrieking.

He must have been silent for too long, because Cal said, “Vincent?” in a soft, questioning tone.

“Yes,” Vincent said, not opening his eyes.

“Are you all right?”

Keeping up the young-nobleman act when he felt like this was extraordinarily hard work, but somehow Vincent managed it. “Quite well, thank you.” He took another slow sip of wine, savoured the taste, made sure his next exhalation was slow and calm despite the tightness in his throat. He thought he was doing fairly well, given the difficult circumstances.

Cal fell silent again. Vincent opened his eyes again; Cal was looking out of the window as he sipped his wine, and Vincent wondered what had drawn his attention. He leaned forward and peered out of the window, but all he could see were the usual roofs of buildings. A few windows were lighted, but most were not; it was getting late. He stole a glance at Cal’s face, but that gave him no further clues.

“What are you looking at?” he said.

Cal started and looked at Vincent. “Nothing,” he said. “Thinking, that’s all.”

“About what?”

That was plain curiosity; another artefact, Vincent supposed, of his infatuation. He wanted to know everything about Cal, from his history to the details of his innermost thoughts, to… well. The rest was supplied enthusiastically by Vincent’s imagination.

“Home,” Cal said softly, and Vincent frowned. He put his wine glass on the windowsill and clasped his hands together. Cal’s expression was pensive, perhaps even sad, his brows drawn together and his mouth turned down. Vincent didn’t ask another question, but held still in his listening pose, keeping his eyes on Cal. “I couldn’t go back to the farm anyway,” Cal said, “but thanks for the offer.”

“Whyever not?” said Vincent.

Cal looked up at him. They locked gazes for a moment, and once again Vincent felt that deceptive sense of connection, like a spell connecting with its target. Then Cal’s gaze cut to one side. “I took some money,” he said.

“Surely your parents would forgive you that,” Vincent said. He glanced behind him again at the desk with its stash of money. “I could give you enough to repay them, if you’d like.”

“No,” Cal said. “Thanks. But I don’t want your money.”

Vincent nodded, and there was a long silence. Cal seemed lost in thought, looking out of the window again at nothing, and Vincent waited. He took another long swig of his wine. It seemed like there was more to be said, and like Cal was taking his time coming around to saying it.

Eventually, Cal turned to look at Vincent again. “It’s not just the money,” he said. Vincent nodded. Another heavy pause, and then: “My brother died.”

“Oh, Cal,” Vincent said. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

“S’all right,” said Cal, though the expression on his face said it wasn’t. “Long time ago. But - I couldn’t stay on the farm after that. Too many memories. Don’t think I could go back now, even after years.” He looked down at his hands, then back up at Vincent. “You’d have liked him, Vin. He was like you in a lot of ways. Quick-thinking. Smart. And kind.”

_Vin._ Vincent hadn’t been called that before, but in Cal’s mouth it sounded friendly. Even affectionate. He still didn’t know where Cal had gathered that he was kind - it certainly wasn’t from his own behaviour, and he doubted anyone in the house would be so inaccurately complimentary. Perhaps it had been Marissa’s idea of a humorous insult. All the same, he wasn’t about to disabuse Cal of such a pleasant notion. In the end all he said was, “I wish I could have met him.”

Cal’s smile was sad, but Vincent could see the loving memory that lay behind the sadness. “He’d have liked you, too. He’d have loved all that knife play, he always took a fancy to clever people. One of my friends down the village, she used to do this trick - “

And with that Cal was off, down the shining path of memory. Vincent listened, because Cal was talking, and because the stories he told gave more information about Cal than he’d divulged in six weeks of working together. Vincent was hungry for information about Cal, starving for it, and he listened to every word greedily, hoarding every morsel for later consumption.

By the time Cal had finished talking, all the windows in the streets outside had gone dark.

**15**

“Sorry,” said Cal, “I’ve talked your ear off.”

“It’s all right,” Vincent said, but Cal still thought he must’ve been bored. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk for so long at a stretch. He clearly meant a great deal to you.”

Cal nodded. It had been five years - _Gods_ \- since Kenzie had died, but Cal could still picture his face, still hear his voice, high-pitched and full of excitement as he explained to them the latest bit of local history he’d learned at school. “He’d be fifteen now, if he’d lived.”

“You must miss him very much,” Vincent said. His voice had gone sober and sad.

“I do.”

Vincent nodded and leaned forward to pour more wine. Cal wasn’t completely sure, but he thought he’d managed to empty two or three glasses in the course of their conversation, and Vincent had quietly filled up the glass again each time. He thought about putting his hand over the glass, but by the time he’d finished thinking that, it was already full again. He picked up the glass anyway and drank. It was good stuff, rich and deep without being too noisy on his tongue; there was a smoothness to it. Opposite him, Vincent took a sip of his own. The expression on his face was - complicated.

The wine was starting to get to his head, though, which was probably a bad combination with everything else. The room already looked softer round the edges, and Vincent looked softer all over; Cal didn’t need wine to think Vincent was appealing, but he’d had enough to drink that it was getting hard to ignore. He wanted to run his fingers through that long hair, to press his lips to Vincent’s face, to...

No. Stop it.

He took another sip of wine, thinking it couldn’t possibly make things _worse,_ and found himself watching Vincent, the movement of Vincent’s throat as he swallowed his own wine. It was - it would have been interesting, the filthy connections his mind started to make, if they hadn’t had such an instant effect. Cal crossed his legs hurriedly, embarrassed, but Vincent didn’t seem to notice.

He should have taken that money, he thought, not for the first time. Vincent would be safer that way: not just from being able to hire more protection for this risky job, but safe from Cal’s dangerous, unprofessional feelings. Those feelings were bound to get in the way, to make it harder for Cal to really take care of Vincent in the way he had done up to now. And a really good bodyguard would notice that and step away.

But Vincent had been right. They were tied together now.

He put his glass back on the table and then sat back, swallowing against a sudden flood of queasiness. Maybe it’d been more than two or three glasses. How long had they been talking, anyway? Cal didn’t know, but the stars were out, the moon half-full and shining. It had already been full dark when he got here, so that was no measure. He glanced at the candles on the windowsill, but he couldn’t remember how tall they’d been when he came in.

Vincent had leaned back in his chair again and closed his eyes to enjoy his wine. So they weren’t going to talk for a bit, Cal guessed. He closed his own eyes, legs still crossed, and let himself drift for a while. The house had gone quiet around them, and no sound came up from the street below. All Cal could hear was the steady crackle of the fire, Vincent’s breathing, and if he listened carefully, the beat of his own heart.

He didn’t know how long he sat there with his eyes shut. He did know he’d definitely had too much. The queasiness faded and came back stronger several times, until he was gripping the sides of his chair as if he was on a sea voyage. When he opened his eyes, Vincent’s were still closed. Cal thought he might be asleep, but he had no time to check, because he had to get to the window before -

He made it, but only just. Thankfully there was no one walking under the window, so his dinner only splattered against the flagstones underneath the window. “Cal?” Vincent said, “Are you all - ?”

Cal could only answer by retching a second time.

“Oh, dear,” Vincent said. Cal heard him get up, and a second later he felt Vincent’s hand come to the middle of his back. “Too much wine?” he asked, and Cal nodded. He gave another couple of coughs, but he’d emptied his belly by now. Vincent stroked his back gently.

His head was swimming by the time he stood up again. Lucky for him, he’d managed not to disturb the candles on the windowsill. Vincent stayed close to him, still stroking his back. “Feel any better?”

“Yeah,” Cal said, and then groaned unhappily. Vincent guided him back to his chair and he fell into it heavily, putting a hand to his aching head.

“I’ll send up for some water,” Vincent said.

*

Cal drank the water Vincent gave him dutifully, and afterwards he did feel a bit better. As soon as the water was gone, Vincent grabbed Cal’s backpack and stretched out the bedroll next to his bed. Cal almost protested, but Vincent gave him a silencing look and said, “It’s late anyway. I should sleep, and I think you _need_ to.”

Cal did feel dead tired. And dead drunk. He lumbered into the bedroom, feeling heavy and unsteady, as if he was carrying a lopsided weight. Vincent undressed and put on his nightshirt quick as a flash, while Cal was still struggling with his bootlaces.

“Do you want a hand?” Vincent asked.

Cal looked up and nodded helplessly. Vincent bit his lip as he concentrated, nimble fingers working, his hair falling so it covered half his face. Cal had just enough control to keep himself from pushing the hair out of the way, and only then because he made sure his hands stayed exactly where they were, pressed into the floor so hard they hurt.

Vincent pulled one boot off Cal’s foot, unrolled his sock and shoved it into the boot. Before he turned to the other foot, he put his hand on Cal’s foot and gently stroked the underside of Cal’s toes with his thumb.

Cal shuddered.

It went no further, though. Vincent made quicker work of Cal’s right boot and gave no special attention to Cal’s right foot afterwards. Cal would normally have taken off his trousers, but he was too drunk to manage the buttons, and he didn’t think getting Vincent’s help would be a good idea. Instead he rolled himself into the bedroll as Vincent climbed into bed and closed his eyes.

Vincent was silent for a good couple of minutes. Then: “Cal?”

“Mm,” Cal said. He was almost asleep. There was another long silence, and Cal held on.

“Never mind,” said Vincent eventually.

Cal grunted, rolled over, and was asleep in a moment.

*

He woke with a headache that clanged like temple bells. Vincent’s bed was empty, and he sat up, confused; the headache only added to his bewilderment. He could hear noise in the next room, and he fought his way out of the bedroll and onto his feet. Vincent was fully dressed, and three servants - two women and a man - were busily packing for him. Cal glanced at the desk, where the carved box full of diamonds was in full view, and wondered if the servants knew how much money that little thing was worth.

Vincent glanced up as Cal shuffled through into the sitting-room. “Good morning,” he said. His voice was soft and hardly grated against Cal’s headache at all. He reached over to the breakfast table and poured a cup of something hot. By the smell Cal got when Vincent passed it to him, it was coffee. “How are you feeling?”

“Rough,” Cal admitted, taking the coffee.

“Drink that, you’ll feel better.”

Cal leaned back against the doorframe and did as he was told. Vincent seemed nimble, light on his feet, darting between servants and boxes and insisting they pack this shirt, this coat, this item that he absolutely _must_ have. It was classic Vincent, but Cal knew the act by now; it was his spoiled-brat show, put on to make the family think he was flightier and more stupid than he really was. He had a few of those acts, some of them similar, but they were all - _pointed,_ that was the word. They all meant something, were designed to make people think a specific way.

He wondered sometimes if he ever saw the real Vincent.

Between directing the packing, Vincent kept checking on Cal. There was cheese and bread and meat and fruit on the table that had been set up for breakfast, and each time Vincent passed he checked whether Cal’s hand was empty. If it was, he passed Cal a random item of food. Cal wasn’t hungry, but he ate dutifully anyway, knowing he’d need to be awake and ready for anything once they got out of the city.

When he’d finished his coffee, and eaten several things that Vincent had given him, he went back into the bedroom to pack up his own belongings. “Antoine can do that,” Vincent called, but Cal wanted to be in charge of his own things. He couldn’t imagine having his belongings packed for him. After a couple of minutes, he shrugged his backpack onto his back and joined Vincent in the sitting room. Vincent handed him another cup of coffee, as if he’d been waiting for Cal to come back.

“We’re almost ready,” Vincent said.

Vincent made Cal finish his coffee before letting him help the servants carry the bags and boxes downstairs. Instead of a fancy two-horse carriage, with a driver and the star-and-cross Dumayne insignia carved onto the side, they were taking a smallish trap. It had a single brown horse - her name, Vincent told Cal, was Marta - and their boxes and bags were piled into the back as if they were poor travellers instead of a rich man and his bodyguard. Cal didn’t know how well it would work, but in the trap they’d make a slightly less obvious target.

Eventually, everything was loaded. Vincent carried the box of diamonds out last, concealed half-heartedly under his jacket, and hid them at the bottom of the rest of the luggage. If Cal glanced behind from his spot at the reins, he could just see the carved wood of the box peeking out from between two boxes.

He held out his hand to help Vincent up. Vincent took it and climbed into the seat next to Cal, giving him a faint smile as he settled into place. The perch wasn’t anywhere near as comfortable as riding in the back of a carriage, but it would have to do. Cal took up the reins and held them slack, waiting for word from Vincent. The servants had gone back to the house, and the street was early-morning empty. From here, Cal could only see Lunette. He waved to her, a quick goodbye, and she gave him a friendly nod.

“Well,” Vincent said, “shall we begin?”


	5. Chapter 5

**16**

Accreton, about twenty miles along the road that led west from the city, was a good place to spend the night. Vincent had visited the town once, several years before, on another errand, though the last errand had been far less dangerous than this. Accreton was small: twenty or thirty houses surrounding a small town square where, Vincent seemed to remember, they had a market most afternoons. The inn, all four rooms of it, sat at one corner of the square.

They arrived shortly after sunset. Vincent went into the inn to secure a room while Cal tended to the horse. The landlady was a cheerful dwarf who took Vincent’s money and asked no questions; just as he liked it. He’d left Cal instructions to bring the box in with their gear.

The trap was a lot less comfortable than his aunt’s carriage - but on the other hand, only one horse meant less time on the road, so Vincent felt surprisingly spry. Perhaps it helped, too, that he’d been exposed to the cool wintry air instead of cooped up in the back of the carriage. The landlady had her husband show Vincent up to the room. It overlooked the western end of the village, and in the distance, the Morray Wood beyond. It was another two or three miles to the edge of the forest, and they would be camping out there the following night.

Vincent flopped down on the bed to wait for Cal. It wasn’t a bad bed. Smallish, and a bit hard, but it’d do. The room itself was surprisingly large. Vincent counted four oil lamps, and there was plenty of room on the floor for Cal to sleep.

Of course, in an ideal world, Cal would be sharing the bed with Vincent.

Cal appeared with the bags a few minutes later. Vincent didn’t need to ask about the box; Cal produced it from his backpack and passed it over without a word. He put Vincent’s overnight bag beside him on the bed and crouched to unpack his own gear, starting with the bedroll. Vincent opened the box - yes, the diamonds were still there - snapped it shut again, and began to dig in his own bag. There wasn’t much inside. A change of clothes, his comb, and - ah, yes. Entertainment. He pulled the pack of cards from the bag and held them up to Cal.

“Do you play at all?” he asked.

Cal glanced up and said, “No,” but that only made Vincent grin as he began to shuffle the cards.

“Would you like to learn?”

*

Vincent decided to teach Cal pontoon; it was simple enough to learn quickly, but diverting enough to entertain them for most of the evening. It took Cal a few rounds of play to pick up the rules properly, but soon enough he was holding his own admirably. They played for gold pieces from Vincent’s stash, which he’d divided evenly between them at the start of the game. Cal had protested vigorously that it was Vincent’s money, but Vincent was winning anyway.

They sat on the bed to play, putting the cards between them, close enough that their knees almost touched. Close enough that Vincent felt every movement of Cal’s legs in the whisper of air against his own trousers. Sometimes their fingers brushed as cards were passed between them. Vincent was trying not to invest those touches with too much meaning, but he couldn’t help enjoying the contact. Cal’s hands were rough-skinned workman’s hands, square and large, a contrast with Vincent’s own.

“Your turn to deal,” he said. He passed the deck to Cal, and their hands touched in the act of passing. This time Vincent found himself lingering for a moment before letting go, letting the touch stay. Cal didn’t remove his hand, though he had a good grip on the cards. When Vincent pulled his hand back, Cal set about dealing without hesitation.

Vincent had a nine and a seven. “Twist,” he said. Cal nodded and turned over a four in front of him. Almost perfect; Vincent smiled. “Stick.”

Cal twisted twice, made a face as he went bust, and shoved a gold piece in the direction of Vincent’s pile. They’d played - what was it? Ten rounds? Twelve? Cal had won two or three of those, and they’d drawn another two.

Cal won the next round. He seemed very surprised, though Vincent thought he was getting the hang of it; he’d stuck at seventeen, a very tempting number for a beginner, and Vincent had chanced his arm and ended up bust with twenty-four. He placed a gold piece into the palm of Cal’s hand, and Cal held it between his finger and thumb for a long moment before putting it on top of his lopsided pile.

That was the moment Vincent decided to quit while Cal still had some money.

“You’re doing well,” said Vincent, passing the deck over to Cal again. Cal took it and their hands brushed again, but Vincent made himself withdraw at the natural moment. “Very well, in fact.”

“Don’t know about that,” Cal said. He turned the deck over in his hands and began to shuffle slowly, using the overhand motion Vincent had taught him. “A lot of it’s luck.”

“Yes,” Vincent said. “A lot of it _is_ luck. But there’s an art to knowing when to stick, and you’re learning it.”

Cal smiled, still shuffling. “You’re a good teacher,” he said.

That came as a surprise. Vincent raised his eyebrows and said, “Thank you.”

“It’s true.” With that, Cal pulled the deck together in his hands and dealt. Vincent picked up his hand and looked at the numbers.

A queen and a ten. He slid the cards over each other for a moment, thinking. It was one thing, he thought, to resolve to stop playing before he’d cleaned Cal out entirely, and another to not even _pretend_ to try to win. There was a part of him that thought of it as a grand romantic gesture - allow Cal to win a bit of extra cash, let him feel good about beating Vincent - and another part of him that thought it would just be pathetic. A last-ditch attempt to win Cal’s affections when they hadn’t been wagered in the first place.

He found himself saying, “Twist.”

He was an _idiot._

Cal dealt a two, knocking Vincent out of the game by one point, and he laughed. “Bust,” he said, tossing his cards down. Cal squinted at the faces of Vincent’s cards for a moment and looked up at Vincent, frowning.

“Why’d you do that?” said Cal. “You should’ve stuck, you had me beat.”

“Well,” Vincent said, scrabbling around for a reason, “you might have dealt me an ace.”

Cal frowned. “Not much chance of that.”

“No.” Vincent shifted uncomfortably on the bed and, lost for something to do with his hands, gathered his three cards into a pile. “Worth a try, though. I was close.”

“S’pose you were,” Cal said. “But that was - Vin, you can’t just let me win, that’s not fair on you.”

“I’ve been playing this game since I was a child. It’s not very fair on _you._ ” Cal hesitated, hand over the deck, as if he was thinking of tossing his hand in. “Play,” Vincent said.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

Cal waited another moment, then turned over a card. A three. He glanced at his hand again, his lips moving as he counted up the numbers. Vincent clearly saw Cal’s lips make the number _eighteen._

“Stick there,” Vincent said.

“I’m just taking your money,” Cal pointed out, frowning.

“That’s the aim of the game.”

“Yeah.” Cal’s brow was still furrowed as he laid down his cards: a jack and a five. Vincent smiled and held out another gold piece, and Cal’s hand hovered in mid-air for a second before he accepted it. “It’s your money, anyway,” Cal said. “I’ll give it back when we’re finished.”

“You keep your winnings,” Vincent said nonchalantly, already gathering up the cards for another shuffle. When he looked up again, Cal was staring at him, his expression horrified. He jostled the cards nervously in his hands. “Cal, it’s all right.”

“You can’t just give me money.”

“But I can lose it,” Vincent said. He shuffled the cards nimbly. They were beautiful, heavy cards, each one almost the size of Cal’s hand, and their size and heft made them difficult to shuffle, but Vincent was an expert. “I don’t mind. Call it payment for extra work, having to learn this game.”

“It’s not work,” Cal said.

“Are you having fun?”

“I am, yeah.”

Vincent smiled as he dealt the cards, and was gratified when Cal smiled back. “Then,” he said, “take my money if you can.”

Still smiling, Cal snatched up his cards.

*

They took a break for supper, somewhat reluctantly, after another hour or so. Vincent had conceded a few hands here and there, but he was still coming out on top overall. As Vincent slipped the playing cards back into their leather case, Cal gathered up the gold coins he had left and held them out to Vincent. Vincent shook his head. “We talked about this.”

“These aren’t winnings, they’re just what I haven’t lost yet,” Cal said.

“They’re yours,” Vincent said shortly. He dropped the deck back into his overnight bag. “Put them away and let’s eat.”

Hesitantly, Cal did as he was told. Vincent put the bag over his shoulder and reached for the box of diamonds; short of a magically-protected lockbox, it seemed safest to keep the box within his sight or Cal’s at all times. Of course, they couldn’t make a big show of carrying it around - if anything would draw attention to them, it was that - but Vincent could at least keep the box in a bag and keep the bag at his feet while they ate. He put the bag over his shoulder and stood.

The inn didn’t have a dining room - only a bar. It also served as the watering-hole for the locals, which made it noisy and crowded. Far from ideal, given their circumstances, but it was the only place to eat in town. Vincent put the bag under the table and kept it firmly between his feet while he ordered food and wine. 

The barman went to see to their request and Vincent leaned forward on the table. It was lit with a single candle, and over it, his eyes met Cal’s. Cal matched Vincent’s posture, smiled faintly, and then looked across the bar. Vincent’s heart fluttered, and he had to tell himself he was over-interpreting Cal’s every move. A bodyguard didn’t stare into his charge’s eyes for long periods of time; that was all. If nothing else, it would be unprofessional, and Cal was a consummate professional. He folded his hands under his chin and glanced around the bar.

There was a fair mix of races - elves, dwarves, humans - most of whom were in large groups around jugs of ale or wine. It was a little late to be eating, he supposed; he and Cal had lingered over the game rather longer than Vincent had intended. He couldn’t see anyone else with food.

He allowed himself a glance back at Cal, who was giving the bar a professional’s once-over. Cal was attractive enough, in a rough-hewn sort of way, but the candlelight softened his features and made him look… different. Warmer. As Vincent watched, Cal finished his survey of the bar and looked back at Vincent. Vincent closed the gap between his feet and was able to feel the shape of the wooden box inside the canvas bag.

“The next leg’s going to be harder,” Cal said, bringing Vincent’s mind all the way back to business. “Loads of good hiding-places in the forest. No nice safe inns for overnights. We’re going to have to be really careful.”

“Should we keep watches overnight?”

Cal nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s one reason I wish we’d brought more people. Neither of us is going to get much sleep the next couple of nights.”

“We’ll - “ Vincent began.

The barman chose that moment to appear with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He dallied over pouring the wine, clearly curious about what Vincent and Cal had been talking about, but Vincent kept silent and Cal followed his example. When the barman had finally vanished, Vincent rolled his eyes at Cal, and Cal gave him a grin.

“Now we’ve lost our eavesdropper,” Vincent said. He lifted his glass, and Cal did the same. “Here’s to a safe onward journey.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Cal said, and he did.

**17**

Dinner was a bowl of thick meaty stew. Cal hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the food arrived and the smell made him feel hollow all through.

He tried not to bolt his food - guarding a man like Vincent, he had to be on his best behaviour - making himself chew and swallow each mouthful instead. It was good stuff. He wondered how Vincent was taking to it, though. It wasn’t much like the fancy stuff that he ate at home.

A quick glance up told him Vincent was just as hungry, though. Vincent met his eyes and gave him a quick smile over his stew; Cal returned it and looked away.

He’d been rationing himself all day: not looking at Vincent too long or too often, not filling the silence with conversation that didn’t belong, not touching Vincent more than he had to. It seemed to be getting harder by the hour to behave towards Vincent like a bodyguard, like a _servant,_ and not like a lovesick kid; and Vincent wasn’t helping much. The card game hadn’t helped. Cal had kept taking too long to pass Vincent the cards or take them back, like it was impossible to let a glancing touch be only that. Gods only knew what Vincent thought of the whole mess.

There was a part of him that wondered, though, if Vincent was feeling the same pull. There was - maybe it was wishful thinking, _probably_ that’s all it was, but every now and then there was something in his smile, in the way he looked at Cal. Something that made Cal wonder if Vincent was rationing himself too.

That couldn’t be right, but Cal couldn’t shake the feeling.

Cal put another spoonful of stew into his mouth, chewed it, swallowed. Since they’d got their food they’d lapsed into silence again, and even in the noise of the bar it was starting to make Cal’s skin itch. He knew that was partly because of how he felt about Vincent. It didn’t make it easier to bear, though. After another couple of mouthfuls, he gave in: “So, where did you learn to play cards?”

He looked up again to see Vincent’s reaction. Vincent looked a bit surprised. “Oh,” he said, “I learned from my grandmother. She’s a master at pontoon. If she ever challenges you to a game, _don’t_ accept.” Vincent smiled wryly.

“I won’t,” Cal said. He couldn’t help smiling back; it just happened without giving him a say.

“It was the summer I was eight,” Vincent said. Cal nodded. He didn’t know how old Vincent was, exactly - probably a few years older than he was, though he looked Cal’s age. Rich boys always looked younger than they were. “My mother had - it was the year she went away. The family didn’t know what to do with me, and my grandmother had retired the previous year, so I was sent out to Rissing. She considered cards part of a good Dumayne education.”

“Where was your dad in all this?” Cal asked, and immediately wished he could take it back. Vincent had been guarded about his father the last time they’d talked.

Vincent chewed his food thoughtfully for a while, leaving Cal hanging. Then he said, “He worked for my grandmother, had an affair with my mother…” Vincent sighed gently, and Cal frowned deeply as Vincent looked up at him and gave a tiny shake of his head. “He wasn’t exactly considered marriage material for my mother. He was… an urchin, really.”

_Urchin._ That word gave Cal a jolt; it was what Vincent’s grandmother had called him the first time she’d seen him. He said nothing, waiting for Vincent to go on.

“He was never going to last long,” Vincent said. “He certainly wasn’t around by the time my mother left the city.”

“Gods, Vin,” Cal said, and then corrected himself quickly. “ _Vincent._ I’m really sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Vincent said softly. “It’s all a very long time ago. And Vin is fine.”

“Is it?” Cal said.

Vincent smiled at him, a soft smile that Cal could easily have mistaken for romantic. It was really an extension of Vincent’s sadness, he thought, talking about this painful stuff. He shouldn’t have brought it up. “I like it,” Vincent said. “And Cal isn’t - _is_ Cal your whole name?”

“No,” said Cal. “It’s Calder. Calder Torrance Mackie’s the whole thing.”

“Calder Torrance Mackie,” Vincent repeated, sounding it out slowly. “I like that. It has a ring to it.” He extended his hand with another smile. This one was amused. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” Cal said, putting on his very best posh accent. That made Vincent laugh sharply, bending forward over the table with the force of it. Cal’s own laughter took him by surprise, and he held onto Vincent’s hand as they laughed together, sharply aware of Vin’s warm palm and long, nimble fingers in his own rough grip.

“Do call me Vin,” Vincent said, recovering.

“All right,” Cal said, “Vin it is.”

Vincent - _Vin_ \- shook Cal’s hand once and released it, slowly, their fingers sliding against one another as their hands separated. Shaking his head a little, trying to clear it of laughter, Cal dug back into the remains of his stew.

*

They were still laughing as they climbed the stairs back up to their room some time later. Cal had thrown the bag with the box in over his shoulder, despite Vin’s protest that Cal did all the work. “That’s what you pay me for,” Cal had pointed out.

Vin had given him a sharp jab in the side with one elbow. “Come on, you know we don’t work like that.” Cal had only smiled, put a hand on Vin’s back, and shouldered the bag anyway. It wasn’t all that heavy.

Now he was stumbling up the last few steps, and for the second night in a row Cal was wondering if he’d had more wine than he thought. Beside him Vin seemed to be having a similar problem. In fact he was using the wall to hold himself up. “All right?” Cal asked.

Vin said, “Fine,” and gave Cal a rambling, unsteady look. Cal was relieved when, a couple of minutes later, they got into the room and could lock the door beside them with the heavy iron key in Vincent’s pocket. Vincent placed the key into Cal’s palm, staggered across the room, and fell on his back on the bed. “I think,” he said, “we might have had rather too much to drink again.”

He began to laugh again. There was a writing-table in one corner of the room; Cal fished the box of diamonds out of the bag, put it on the table, and flipped it open briefly to check the contents. Nothing seemed wrong. They were beautiful things, and in the flickering lamplight they shimmered, seemed almost magical all by themselves. Cal allowed himself a long look and then closed the box again.

“You like those diamonds,” Vin said, and then, nonsensically, “You want to be their friend.”

“You’re drunk, Vin,” Cal said amiably. He’d been drinking harder this evening, Cal thought. Two glasses for every one of Cal’s at least.

“That I am,” said Vin. “And I think I should give you a diamond. Then you can make friends with it.”

“ _I_ think that this Evard woman’s going to count the diamonds when she gets them, and if one’s missing she’ll want to know why.” Cal knelt at Vin’s feet to unlace his boots, and heard Vin sit up to stare at him. He looked up.

“What are you doing?”

He was only returning the favour from last night. “Taking off your boots so you can go to bed.”

“You could come to bed,” Vin said. “With me.”

Cal stared. He couldn’t help it. Then Vin’s eyes went wide and all the colour drained out of his face. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he said, so hurriedly that his tongue tripped over the words. “I - please accept my apologies.”

“It’s all right,” Cal said. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve had a lot to drink, that’s all. You need to go to sleep.”

“I do,” Vincent agreed. He rubbed a hand over his face, as if suddenly exhausted. “I’m sorry, Cal, I absolutely should not have said that.”

“Don’t think twice about it.”

He turned his attention back to Vin’s boots. Their laces were silky-smooth, a lot easier to untie than Cal’s own, and he made quick work of them. Barefoot, Vincent went to the table, pulled his nightshirt out of his bag and began to strip. Cal tried to focus on getting out of his own boots, but he couldn’t resist glancing up a couple of times. He got one glimpse of Vin’s bare shoulders. The second time he caught a flash of Vin’s thighs and buttocks and turned away fast, flushing.

Had Vin really meant what he said? As he undressed, Cal couldn’t help but imagine what it’d be like, climbing into that soft bed with Vin like a lover. Putting his arms around that narrow waist, burying his face in Vin’s long hair. There was a part of him, a _loud_ part, that thought he should have said yes and forget everything that happened next. Forget the diamonds and the scroll, the journey through the woods tomorrow, _everything,_ and lose himself in Vin’s embrace.

But it was a bad idea.

He pulled off his boots and got up, not very steadily, to find his backpack. He untied his bedroll, laid it out on the floor, and glanced reflexively at the bed. Vin had got in and was lying on his back, eyes still open, looking up at the ceiling. Cal reckoned he was thinking. He did that a lot. Cal looked away to keep the glance from turning into a gaze, and out of the corner of his eye saw that Vin had turned his head.

“Do you at least want one of these pillows?” Vin asked.

“I’m all right,” said Cal.

“You’ll be more comfortable.” Without waiting for further response, Vin plucked a pillow from the bed and tossed it in Cal’s direction. It hit Cal’s shoulder and landed a few feet away, and Vin began to laugh again. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Cal grinned, standing up to get the pillow. “It’s fine. Sure you don’t want this?”

“Keep it,” Vincent said.

Cal nodded and tossed the pillow onto the bedroll, to be dealt with later. Still not all that stable, he lit the candle by the bedside and put out the oil lamps. By the time he was done, Vin had rolled onto his side and was hugging the blankets as he watched Cal, one bare leg exposed below his nightshirt.

It was two steps to the side of the bed. Cal made them and then hesitated, his hand hovering in midair. He had no good reason, he thought, for what he did next; it was all bad news, really. Even if Vin did feel the same, and even if they could make the job work anyway, even if there was something here worth pursuing…

…he still didn’t know what they’d done to Vin’s dad. The urchin.

He reached down anyway and gently brushed the hair out of Vin’s face.

Vin closed his eyes and let out a happy humming noise that filled Cal with happy shivers. That had to be it, though. He had to stop there. He stroked Vin’s hair once and took his hand away, turned, went back to the bedroll, took off his trousers.

“Goodnight, Vin,” he said as he put the pillow under his head.

Vin didn’t answer. When Cal looked again, he was fast asleep.

*

They were quiet over breakfast the next morning. Cal didn’t know if Vin remembered what had been said last night, or if it was only that he was feeling the effects of the wine. Cal had a familiar headache himself, but it was soothed a bit by three mugs of tea and a good helping of greasy food. Vin drank his tea without milk, staring over Cal’s shoulder at nothing for almost the entire meal.

Cal thought it was best they get moving as early as they could. It was a bad idea to push the horse further than she should go, but Cal wanted to have camp set up and a fire burning by sundown. Winter meant long nights, and that would make it harder in the forest; Cal didn’t know what wild animals, or wild people, lived down that way. They left as soon as they could after breakfast, hiding in a corner of the stables to check the diamonds one last time before hiding the box under the rest of the luggage. One advantage of packing so much: there was plenty of cover.

He was keenly aware of Vin’s presence all that morning, a warmth at his side in the chilly air, but Vin was still silent. Several times Cal opened his mouth to ask what he was thinking, if he was all right, then shut it again with a snap.

He liked the horse, he’d decided. Marta was a placid, obedient creature, small and brown with a long mane a few shades darker than her coat. Cal was surprised when, as he was starting to think it might be time for lunch, she slowed significantly and would not speed up.

He tugged on the reins, trying to spur her on, but it didn’t do any good. “Hey,” he said, “hey, girl, what’s the problem?”

“What’s going on?” Vin said. He was sitting up straight rapidly as Cal looked sideways at him; Cal hadn’t realised he’d gone to sleep.

“Don’t know. Hang on, let me see.”

Cal told Marta to stand and hopped down from the perch. He hunted in the back of the trap for a treat for her and went carefully to stand at her side, put out a hand to stroke her mane - and froze.

He’d heard something.

“Cal, what - “

“ _Ssssh._ ”

Vin shut up immediately. Cal held still and listened for another moment, and heard it again: an unnatural _swish_ of leaves displaced. There was no wind. A second later, he heard the telltale snap of a branch, and then all of a sudden, there it was. Footfalls. Someone was running. A lot of someones.

“Vin, get down here,” he said.

Vin didn’t ask questions. He took Cal’s outstretched hand and jumped lightly onto the road, making hardly a sound. “What’s happening?” he whispered.

Cal put his hand on Marta to reassure her. She must have smelled them, or something like that. Maybe they were bandits, had heard the horse and the wheels and thought - 

Didn’t matter what they’d thought. Cal fell into a fighting stance and aimed himself at the trees in front of him, where he thought they were coming from. “Get behind me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Someone’s coming.”

**18**

Now was not the time to feel the familiar shiver of being too close to Cal. Vincent's body didn't seem to care about that, though, not even as he stepped behind Cal and drew his dagger from its place on his belt. In front of him, close enough that Vincent could smell the leather of his coat, Cal had assumed a fighting posture, his fists raised, standing lightly on the balls of his feet.

Vincent could hear them now, too. It was definitely a _them;_ the sound was becoming thunderous as they approached. He couldn't hear horses, which he supposed was a small mercy, but there seemed to be a lot of running feet. A few seconds later he could see dark-clothed figures appear from between the trees, dodging as if they lived there. Seven; ten; no, twelve. Vincent's throat closed up in terror. If these people meant them harm, they were in a lot of trouble.

They slowed as they approached. "Stay behind me," said Cal, but it didn't matter; they came to stand in a loose circle around Cal, Vincent and the trap.

They were human, a mix of women and men, but gaunt and unkempt. Vincent wondered as he did a quick count - _fifteen,_ oh Gods - whether they lived in the forest. But that didn't matter. One of them, a woman, spoke up: "We don't want trouble. Hand it over."

She was short, fair hair pulled back from her dirty face, but Vincent didn't think it would do to underestimate her. Or her fourteen friends. He opened his mouth to answer, but Cal said, "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on, Cal," the woman said. Her tone was exasperated. "It _is_ Cal, isn't it? And the pretty boy's Vincent." Vincent tensed further. They had information. Where in the world had they got it from? The woman paused and then said, "Don't play games. Give us the box."

"What box?" Cal said, his voice as tense as Vincent felt.

" _The_ box," the woman said. "With the diamonds." She stretched her arms out in front of her, faking laziness, and cracked her knuckles idly. "You don't have to lie to us," she went on, "we know you've got it."

"We haven't got any diamonds," Cal said, but he glanced nervously behind him, at Vincent, and that betrayed him. Vincent resisted the urge to put a reassuring hand on Cal's back and held still instead. This wasn't going well.

The woman sighed theatrically and said, "Search the cart."

She stayed where she was, facing Cal and Vincent, while the rest of the group moved towards the cart. Cal turned at the waist this time and met Vincent's eyes for a moment, his eyes questioning, and Vincent nodded. He didn't think it'd do much good, but they had little choice; if they lost those diamonds, his aunt would have them both killed when they got back to the city.

He didn't have time to do more than wonder whether there was a third option. Cal launched himself at the nearest man, picked him up by the shirt, and threw him backwards. Vincent took a step to the side as a woman passed. He thrust his knife into the middle of her back and she went down gurgling. In front of him, Cal was hauling another woman off the cart. He punched her in the face three times and she collapsed at his feet.

A tall man turned away from the cart to deal with Vincent. Vincent feinted a couple of times, dodging the tall man's clumsy fists, then got him in the stomach. He ran forward to where a group of them were leaning over the cart, opening bags and boxes, and raised his knife, but a woman grabbed the wrist of his knife hand and turned it hard. He cried out with the pain, but managed to stay on his feet even as a second woman gave him a hard punch to the stomach.

"Vin!" Cal said, looking up. Behind him, the first man he'd attacked was up on one knee, shaking his head as if to clear it; and what had happened to the leader, the one who'd spoken to them? Vincent couldn't see her. Cal had been tussling with another woman, but now he threw her down and shoved the next man out of the way, trying to get to Vincent.

"Ah-ah-ah," the woman's voice said from behind Vincent.

The dagger was plucked without effort from Vincent's useless hand and brought to his throat. It was so close he could feel the sharp edge of the knife. When he moved his eyes to the side, he could make out, blurrily, the face of the leader at his shoulder.

"Stand. Down," she said to Cal. "Or I'm going to make a mess."

Cal raised his hands above his head without hesitation, and something happened to Vincent's stomach. He could see distress and panic written plain on Cal's face, and in that one terrified moment, he finally understood, like a fireball casting light over a dark room that it might be about to destroy.

Cal loved him.

They were only a few yards apart, but the distance felt like miles. He met Cal's eyes, hungry for confirmation, but Cal only gave him a brisk, I'm-in nod.

"Good," the leader said, pressing Vincent's knife harder into Vincent's throat. "Very good. Now, let us take what's ours, and there won't be any more trouble."

"Fine," Cal said.

Vincent and Cal waited, helpless, eyes on each other, while the remaining bandits searched the cart. It really wasn't very long at all before one of the men shouted, "Found it!" and held up the box.

The woman made a satisfied _aah_ noise. "See?" she said. "Not so hard."

Cal breathed a sigh of relief, but the knife was still at Vincent's throat; he thought it was a bit premature. He held very still, watching, and the leader must have given a nod, because the man with the box jumped off the cart and began to run back into the woods, and the rest of the group converged on Cal.

He fought valiantly - he even took a couple more of them down - but eventually they got his arms and two of the larger men began to pummel him as he struggled. Vincent's breath quickened, but he couldn't do _anything,_ not with that knife pressed into his neck ready to slice. He simply watched as Cal took his beating, fists to the face, chest and stomach. A loud grunt of pain as he took a knee to the groin.

Then the biggest of the men grabbed Cal by the neck and rammed his head into the side of the cart.

"CAL!" Vincent screamed. "NO!" He wriggled in the woman's tight grip, but there was nothing he could do. He felt the knife's edge press more firmly against his throat. "No," he said more softly, choking back a sob.

The bandits let go of Cal and he fell to the ground like a sack of floor.

The leader leaned forward and breathed on his ear. "Come on, little man," she said to him. "We've got plans for you."

*

He was right not to have underestimated the leader. She was strong; she grabbed Vincent under one arm with sharp fingers and began to drag him behind her. For a few seconds, he fought to resist, but pain and terror seemed to have drained all the strength out of his legs. He could only look helplessly over at Cal, who was slumped unconscious by the wheels of the cart, a stain of blood spreading through his fair hair.

Vincent's chest hitched, another sob threatening at the base of his throat. He swallowed hard around it and put his hand around his injured right wrist. The wave of pain made him gasp, and made his chest hitch again, but he wasn't going to let himself cry. His right hand was useless, the wrist intensely painful to touch, and he wondered if it was broken.

Given how hard it had been wrenched, he wouldn't be surprised.

The leader dragged him past the trap, off the dirt road, and into the woods they'd come from. For a few minutes, Vincent felt paralysed by misery, only able to fight off tears and cradle his damaged wrist in his left hand. For a few minutes, the tears won. He managed to keep silent, but they streamed down his face all the same. He didn't know, he admitted to himself, if Cal would even survive. It had looked like a pretty nasty head wound.

That thought made the tears come harder. It had been a danger from the start, Vincent knew, that associating with him would get Cal killed. Then again, at the start he hadn't been in love with the man. Now, the thought of Cal dying for him was unbearable. Impossible. He had to get back there. He had to.

He sniffed hard, coughed - and with an effort, stopped crying. "Stop," he said in a soft voice, and then more loudly, "Wait."

The woman stopped walking, though she didn't loosen her grip under Vincent's arm. "What?" she said.

"I can walk," he said. "I'll come with you, I can walk."

"Why should I trust you?" said the woman.

Vincent craned his neck to look up at her, but she wasn't facing him. "You've got what you wanted," Vincent said. "You've got the diamonds and you've killed my friend." He managed to get those last words out fairly smoothly, though they still made him want to sob. "I'm not stupid. I can recognise a superior operator when I see one. I'll come with you."

"No funny business," the woman said.

"I promise."

Luckily, Vincent thought, he wasn't exactly a man of his word. She released her grip on him, finally, and he got unsteadily to his feet, still supporting his probably-broken wrist with his other hand. The pain gave him something to focus on, something other than the yawning chasm that seemed to open up beneath him every time he thought about Cal. About how Cal might be dead.

Vincent couldn't see the man with the box. But the rest of the group - less the two he'd murdered - surrounded them in a loose group. There was nowhere to run; not unless he felt like fighting off twelve people with no weapon and a broken wrist. He just had to bide his time. Gain their trust, and maybe he'd be able to get out, get back to that spot on the road, save Cal.

Find out, at least, whether Cal was still alive.

He couldn't wipe the tears from his face; not without letting his wrist hang painfully in midair. So they dried on his face as he followed the leader through the forest, wondering where they might be going.

*

Through his haze of pain, Vincent wasn't sure how long they walked. Twenty minutes? Thirty? Nowhere near long enough to reach the edge of the woods; the camp was no more than a collection of makeshift shacks in a large clearing. Many of the shacks were built against large tree-trunks.

Vincent revised his opinion. No humans could live here permanently.

In fact he couldn't see how they could live here for very long at all. There was no obvious source of water - the river was a few miles away yet. There must be ready access to food, he supposed. Was this place made for a purpose, then?

For the _specific_ purpose of stealing his aunt's diamonds?

He stopped at the entrance to the camp and a person grabbed him by each arm. As he was marched towards a shack at the back of the camp, he looked around for the leader, and saw her examining the contents of the box of diamonds with a satisfied look on her face. He didn't have very long to look before the two people threw him into the shack. He hit the floor chest-first; his bad wrist was crushed beneath him, but he was too winded to scream with the pain.

Someone kicked him in the side for good measure. Then he was grabbed under both arms and dragged to the back of the dark room. His legs were tied at the ankles. His wrists were bound and tied to the tree-trunk that stood at the back of the room. Being tied this way was unspeakably painful, his broken wrist getting no support whatever, only unwanted pressure from the rope. All he could do was breathe through the pain and wait, in the darkness, for whatever happened next.

It didn't take long.

Vincent's eyes had just got used to the darkness, so when the door came open, letting sunlight in, he squinted and turned away. All he could see was a large figure standing in the doorway, blocking out some of the light, but not all of it. As the door closed and the light went away, Vincent heard the sound of a knife being drawn.

"Hello, Mr Dumayne," said a familiar voice.

The figure came and crouched in front of Vincent, close enough that Vincent could at last make out the man's face. His jaw dropped open, and his skin bristled - because this man had worked for him, this man had tried to kill him… and this man had had Cal.

"Brodie," said Vincent.

Brodie brandished the knife and grinned an awful grin.


	6. Chapter 6

**19**

Cal woke with a throbbing headache and, for a good minute or so afterwards, no idea where he was. He was on his side on a dirt road; from where he was lying he could see a bank of trees. A forest? What -

He sat up and the headache seemed to shift and intensify, making his stomach roll unpleasantly. At his back was a trap, and a little way down the road were two people, a man on his back, a woman on her stomach; and that was when he remembered.

They'd taken the diamonds. And Vin, where was - 

He jumped to his feet, ignoring the pain in his head. "Vin?" he yelled. "Vincent!"

"He's gone," a man's voice said.

Cal turned. The man on the floor was alive - hadn't Vin stabbed him? Cal took a few cautious steps towards the man. "What?"

"She took him," the man said. His voice was thick and choked, and when Cal looked more closely, he could see a dark stain spreading across the man's shirt. "Loretta."

"Loretta?" That must have been the fair-haired woman who'd done all the talking. "Where'd she take him?"

The man just looked at him. Cal crossed the remaining distance and crouched at the man's side. The man was holding his belly with one hand, and Cal could see the hand was covered in blood. Vincent had stabbed him in the stomach; he was bleeding to death.

Nasty way to die.

"What's your name?" Cal asked.

The man gave him another look. "Tom."

"My name's Cal," said Cal. Tom didn't answer, so he plunged on. "Where'd they take my friend? Do you know?"

Tom nodded slowly. Cal breathed a sigh of relief - maybe he could find Vin after all - but first he had to get the man to tell him. He wasn't sure _how,_ that was all.

A few Dumayne interrogation techniques came to mind.

Cal frowned unhappily and looked at Tom. He didn't want to do it like this, but what choice did he have? He wasn't going to leave Vin to Loretta, to whatever she had in mind for him. He wasn't sure what they planned to do with him - they had the diamonds, surely they had what they wanted - but he didn't want to find out.

He didn't want _Vin_ to find out.

"Listen," Tom said, "I know how this works. You want information, I've got a wound so it's nice and easy for you to hurt me. Call me a coward, but I'd rather not die like that."

"You know how this works?" Cal said. Did Tom work for another of the families? Maybe the Mancinis. Maybe the war wasn't as over as they'd thought it was.

"Yeah," Tom said. "Course I do. I work for the Dumaynes, same as you."

Cal took the information like a body-blow, and it took him nearly half a minute to properly recover. If Tom worked for the Dumaynes, did that mean - ? "For the _Dumaynes?_ " he said, staring.

"We all do," said Tom.

Cal stared at him for a bit longer. "Loretta too."

Tom huffed, coughed, and then grunted in pain. "Yeah." He looked up at Cal, suddenly looking very tired, and Cal remembered that he was dying. "They've got a camp," he said. "It's about a mile and a half east of here, through the forest. She'll have taken him there."

"What's supposed to happen to him?" Cal asked.

"He'll be delivered back to Mistress Dumayne," said Tom, and when Cal pulled himself to his feet, he added: "Not 'til tomorrow. You've got some time to get him back."

"This was a set-up," Cal said.

"You shouldn't be surprised," Tom said. "This lot, that's their business. Your mate Vincent'd probably turn round and stab you in the back, too, first chance he got."

No, Cal thought, he wouldn't. Not Vin. But he didn't say that aloud; Tom would only laugh at him. He was right. Backstabbing was the Dumaynes' business.

"Thanks," he said. "Can I do anything for you?" He didn't think he could do much; Tom was beyond help. But he owed the man a favour. A big one.

"Yeah," Tom said, and he drew a dagger from his belt.

Cal took the dagger, looked Tom in the eye, and nodded solemnly.

*

It was an awful thing to have to do, but there was nothing else for it. He slit Tom's throat - a much quicker way to die - and left the knife at Tom's side.

Afterwards he checked the other body, a woman, but it looked like she'd been dead for a good while.

He didn't think he dared approach Loretta and her people until after dark. That meant there was time to dig graves for Tom and the woman, bury them, wash the blood and dirt off his hands with a splash of water from one of the canteens they kept in the cart. He broke off a bit of bread and ate it quickly, not really tasting it; drank some water; unhitched poor patient Marta from the trap and tethered her to a tree where she could get at some grass.

There wasn't much to be done about the trap itself, sitting exposed in the middle of the dirt road, blocking the way. But in any case, the most valuable things were gone. A lot of things had been overturned and thrown out of the cart in the search for the diamonds, and Cal picked them up and shoved them back into the trap. Then, for whatever good it might do, he covered the trap with the oiled cloth they'd use if it started to rain.

He supposed if someone stumbled on the trap, they could have what they wanted.

He waited until sunset, then set off. His head was still throbbing from where it had been slammed against the side of the trap, but that didn't matter now. Putting the setting sun at his back, he took off through the forest. He wasn't an expert at forest tracking, not at all, but he thought he could see where the grass and leaves had been trampled, where branches had been knocked off trees and broken underfoot. They'd been a big group.

After some time of walking, he reached a natural gap in the trees. He immediately darted off to one side, hiding where the trees were still thick, hoping no one had seen him, and observed. The gap in the trees went straight ahead for fifty yards or so, like a broad avenue in the city, then opened out further into a proper clearing. In the clearing were twenty or so buildings - shacks, really - some of them propped up against trees. None of them very well-made. Cal observed the camp from his hiding-place: he could see a group of people gathering around a fire near the front, passing around pieces of food and a jug of something.

He couldn't see what they were eating, but his stomach growled anyway. He took a step backwards, deeper into the forest, trying to conceal himself better while keeping watch. That wasn't exactly his strong point either - Vincent, defter and smaller, hid much better than Cal - but he could only do his best.

After a few more minutes, someone sauntered out of a shack at the back of the camp, towards the group at the fire. Cal peered, because something about that figure, the way it moved, had made him bristle. The figure took a seat at the near edge of the clearing with its own jug and a hunk of something to eat that Cal couldn't make out. He was facing in, towards the others, but a minute or so later he glanced over his shoulder, his face lit by the flickering firelight, and Cal took in a sharp breath.

_Brodie._

*

Cal retreated behind a tree, put his back to it, and hugged his knees. Maybe after they'd eaten, they'd go back to their shacks. Even then, they'd probably put a guard or two out to watch, just in case. Cal didn't think these people were stupid, and he _knew_ their orders weren't. Not how he knew where their orders came from.

Guards or no, Brodie was their biggest threat.

People didn't usually switch sides; not among the city families, which prized loyalty above everything. If you got fired by one family, and by some miracle got away with your life, the other families wouldn't touch you. Which meant that back in Rissing, Brodie couldn't have been working for the Mancinis, as Cal had assumed. He had to have been working for the Dumaynes.

For Vin's aunt, who must have been trying to kill Vin even then.

It was a sobering thought. It meant Vin had been in danger from his own people this whole time - and Cal hadn't had a clue about it. Some bodyguard he made. He wondered if Miss Starling knew the plan; if the servants at the house knew. Maybe he and Vin had been the only people in the whole family who didn't know Mistress Dumayne's plans for him.

Except it didn't make any _sense._ If Mistress Dumayne had wanted him dead, she could have killed him any time. He lived in her _house._

Who was she trying to fool?

Cal didn't know. There was a good reason Vin was the one who did all the thinking. If they got out of this - no, _when_ they got out of it - they'd have to have a serious talk about what they were going to do now. If Mistress Dumayne was this keen on getting Vin's hide…

…maybe they should just run now while they had the chance.

When he looked back at the camp, a few minutes later, he discovered he'd been right. Most of the men and women had gone inside, leaving only a couple of guards. at the front of the camp. He was just in time to see the last of them disband. And was that Brodie who was headed back to that shack at the back of the camp?

Cal wondered if he could get there without being seen. Retreating back into the trees, he made his way, as slowly and quietly as he could, round the edge of the clearing to the back of the camp. After a few careful, heart-in-his-throat minutes, he peered into camp again and was pleased to see he was right where he needed to be. Thank the Gods, no one was looking his way.

He had to be quick. As light on his feet as he could manage, he hurried to the door of the shack and pulled it open. Inside the room was dark; but not much darker than the forest was now, lit only by the ambient firelight from a hundred yards away. He could see Brodie hovering over - _oh._

Vin was tied to the tree that formed part of the back of the shack.

That was enough to fill Cal with rage. Letting the door of the shack bang shut behind him, he rushed forward, grabbing Brodie's shirt with one hand. Brodie barely had time to turn his head before Cal punched him with the other, hard in the side of the head. Brodie collapsed sideways, his shirt ripping in Cal's hand as he went down, and looked up at Cal in utter shock.

"Hello, lover," Cal said.

**20**

"Cal," Vincent said. His voice was thin from hours of pain; he was amazed he _could_ still talk. He didn't think Cal heard him, though. Cal was rounding on Brodie with rage in his eyes, his fists already raised for the next round, and Brodie was rolling up into a sitting position, ready to leap at Cal.

Vincent could only watch as Cal lunged for Brodie. Brodie pulled that long knife from his boot and held it up, but Cal was quicker; he went to one side, pushing Brodie onto his back. He punched Brodie in the face twice, grabbing Brodie's wrist with the other hand. For a second, Vincent thought Cal was going to pull the move they'd pulled on Vincent at the roadside - break his wrist - but he didn't. He just let Brodie's head and shoulders fall back, then grabbed the knife with both hands and yanked it from Brodie's grip.

Cal tossed the knife away and it slid across the dirt floor, coming to a standstill a couple of feet from Vincent's thigh. Vincent, still tied up and with searing pain in his wrist, couldn't do anything to get it. Cal grabbed Brodie by the shoulders and slammed him into the ground hard, once, twice, then let him go. Brodie groaned softly and, for the moment, lay still.

Cal turned to Vincent and gave him a long, hungry look. Then he got to his feet and came to crouch at Vincent's side. "Cal," Vincent said again, and this time he knew Vincent heard him. Cal put one hand to the back of Vincent's head, leaned close, put his forehead gently against Vincent's. For several long seconds they stayed like that, saying nothing, Cal stroking Vincent's hair.

"Vin," Cal said softly.

Vincent closed his eyes and said, "Cal. Darling."

He heard Cal's breath hitch and Cal lifted his head to give Vincent a searching look. Vincent looked back steadily, and in the darkness he thought he saw Cal's lips form the ghost of a smile.

"Let's get you out of this," he said.

He reached down and picked up the knife with the hand that had been stroking Vincent's hair. Vincent kept an eye out behind Cal; Cal quickly cut the rope that bound Vincent's wrists to the tree trunk, and Vincent gasped as his hands were released. He cradled his right wrist in his left hand again, feeling how it had got hot and swollen. Those hours tied up couldn't have been good for it.

Cal looked down at Vincent's wrist and opened his mouth to say something, but Vincent, still looking over Cal's shoulder, whispered Cal's name. Brodie was getting to his feet. Cal dropped the knife by Vincent's leg - an error, Vincent thought - and got up to face Brodie once again.

Brodie lunged; Cal did too. They grabbed each other and as they wrestled each other to the floor Vincent let go of his wrist. It caused him more pain to let it hang, even for the few moments it took to grab the knife and cut the rope from his ankles; but it was worth doing. Now he could move again. He found that, with a careful grip, he could wield the knife in his left hand while supporting his right wrist in his left elbow. Far from ideal, but it was something.

He came up into a crouch, the knife ready.

A few feet away, Brodie and Cal were still grappling. Cal was on top, pinning one of Brodie's shoulders to the ground, but Brodie had Cal by the throat with his other hand. Vincent watched as Brodie's grip tightened, saw Cal begin to choke, and still in his crouch, he took a careful step forward.

He wouldn't be very good with the knife, not like this; Brodie would have to provide a very easy target. He stayed on alert all the same.

"You want to go another round? It was all right the first time," Brodie said, and even in the darkness Vincent could see Brodie flash a grin. Then Brodie grunted with pain, his body jerking, and it was Vincent's turn to grin, because he was pretty sure Cal had given the bastard a knee to the crotch.

But it wasn't enough; Brodie's grip didn't loosen. With a roar of effort, Brodie rolled Cal onto his side and got on top of him. His back was to Vincent now as he straddled Cal's body, and Cal's hands could only wave uselessly in the air as he choked. He attempted a punch to Brodie's stomach, but it landed so lightly that Brodie laughed.

He was killing Cal.

Vincent kept low to the ground as he slowly covered the ground between himself and Brodie's back. Brodie, focused on his murderous task, didn't notice Vincent's approach. Vincent could hear Cal beginning to gurgle as the breath was squeezed out of him and took the last two steps hastily. He had one chance at this.

He hesitated only for a second, getting the knife positioned right, and then jabbed the knife into the middle of Brodie's back. Brodie stiffened, his grip on Cal's neck finally releasing, and half-turned. The look of utter surprise on his face was surprisingly gratifying. Vincent twisted the knife once, viciously, and withdrew it, and Brodie fell heavily across Cal's legs. He coughed twice, weakly, and then lay still.

Vincent crossed the distance to Cal's side on his knees, laying the knife by Cal's shoulder. "Are you all right?" he asked hurriedly.

Cal, wheezing and gasping for breath, said nothing for several minutes. Vincent waited, not feeling particularly patient, his good hand stroking Cal's shoulder in what he hoped was a soothing motion. Eventually, Cal said, "I'm all right."

His voice was hoarse and weak, but it was there. Vincent felt a powerful wave of relief wash through him, and his hand gripped Cal's shoulder hard. He bent forward and down, intending to rest his forehead against Cal's again, but Cal's hand came up into Vincent's hair and he kissed Vincent's mouth, a sweet, soft kiss.

Vincent closed his eyes reflexively as he kissed back. They lingered over that first kiss, the terrible situation seeming far away for those few seconds; even the pain in Vincent's arm seemed distant and irrelevant. But at last they had to come up for air.

"My Vin," Cal said warmly.

Vincent wanted to spend the next several hours exploring all possible meanings of that statement, but now wasn't the time. He used his good hand to push himself up into a sitting position. Cal came with him and, after a moment, pushed Brodie's corpse off to one side.

"Is he dead?" Cal asked.

"Yes." A quick glance told Vincent that his eyes were open, staring, but saw nothing. "He was going to kill you."

"I don't object," Cal said, and Vincent gave him a faint smile. Cal glanced down at Vincent's wrist, which was still cradled in his elbow. "You're hurt."

"I think it's broken," Vincent said, though _think_ was an understatement. He was quite certain.

Cal, to Vincent's surprise, went to Brodie's side without saying anything else. Without ceremony, he pulled the shirt off Brodie's back. It was torn in two places, and bloody where Vincent had stabbed him. Cal picked up Brodie's dagger and began to cut the shirt into strips.

"What are you doing?" Vincent asked.

"We'll get you bound up," Cal said, not looking up. All his attention was on his task. "Then we'll see what's next."

Vincent nodded.

*

Cal used strips of the shirt and pieces of a board from the back of the shack to splint and bind Vincent's arm, then made a makeshift sling out of the fabric of Brodie's trousers. Vincent still couldn't use his hand, but it was better, he supposed, to keep the arm mostly out of action.

"That'll have to do until we can get you to a healer," Cal said.

Vincent nodded. "Thank you."

Cal kissed him in response, as softly as the last time. Vincent put his good hand to the back of Cal's neck as he returned the kiss, loving the sensation of Cal's warm skin under his hand. Cal put his arms around Vincent's waist, and Vincent was overcome again with the desire to forget everything, to make love to Cal here and now and forget the trouble they were in.

But now wasn't the time. Vincent pulled back from reluctantly, then leaned against Cal's chest, nestled in the crook of his arm.

"We've got to get those diamonds back, Vin," said Cal, stroking Vincent's hair gently. "D'you know where they are?"

"The woman had them," Vincent said. "Their leader."

"Loretta."

Vincent sat back to look at Cal's face. "How d'you know her name?"

"There was - " Cal hesitated. "The man you stabbed. He was still alive. He told me where this place is." His hand ran over the back of Vincent's head again. "And a lot more besides. Vin - "

Cal didn't go on, only looking into Vincent's face with an expression of urgency and intensity that Vincent couldn't quite interpret. "What?" Vincent said. "Cal, tell me."

"Vin, these are all your aunt's people."

Vincent stared at him. "But - " He glanced over at Brodie's body. "Cal, that's not _possible._ "

"Isn't it?" Cal said. He was rubbing the back of Vincent's neck now, an absent circular motion with two fingers. It felt so good that Vincent suppressed a shiver. "You said yourself, your aunt's never liked you. What if she's been trying to get rid of you this whole time?"

Vincent swallowed.

He could well believe it. It wasn't as if he hadn't suspected - repeatedly, and with increasing conviction - over the past few months. One dangerous mission after another. His aunt, or whoever was doing this, hadn't been quite so bold as to send him on suicide missions, but he'd had more than his fair share of negotiations with people who wanted him dead. And especially so since he'd hired Cal.

"Then we're in a lot of trouble," Vincent said. As if they hadn't been already. "But that's nothing new, is it?"

He gave Cal a wry grin. Cal, to his credit, grinned back.

"We're in this together," Vincent said, "isn't that what we decided?"

"To the end," Cal said firmly, and his arms closed around Vincent's back. Vincent put his head on Cal's shoulder and again they lost several precious seconds to self-indulgence. How long, Vincent wondered, until someone came to check on Brodie? Was he expected somewhere?

With that thought, he slipped out of Cal's embrace and sat back.

"Doesn't change anything," said Cal, picking up the knife again. "We get the diamonds back, we get out of here, we get where we're going. That's how we survive."

"Yes," Vincent said. He gestured in the direction of the knife with his left hand. "But give me that. I've got an idea."

*

Cal didn't _like_ the idea much, but he went along with it all the same. Vincent was grateful.

With great caution, they sneaked out of the hut and into the woods behind the camp. The guards, miraculously, heard nothing, and they got into the woods without drawing any unwanted attention. Cal pulled Vincent behind a tree and kissed him fervently, and this time they lost a good few minutes in each other's arms. Eventually, Vincent ducked out of Cal's arms.

"We have work to do," he said.

Cal was grinning at him. "Then that's a promise for later."

"And I expect you to fulfil that promise." He lifted his good hand to stroke the side of Cal's face. "Good luck."

"You, too."

They parted, Cal heading back to where he'd entered the first time, Vincent creeping through the trees to the other side of the camp. After the agreed period of time, he heard Cal bellow his name. He watched from his hiding place as the guards got up and ran to engage Cal, and people streamed out of the shacks. He didn't bother to count. The point wasn't for Cal to fight them - or at least, not for very long.

It didn't take long at all for Loretta to emerge from her shack. It was fairly near the centre of the camp, and Vincent crept towards it carefully, not wanting to draw the attention of anyone. Inside, there was an oil lamp burning next to the wooden box of diamonds. He opened the clasp and flipped the lid open.

The diamonds were still inside.

He closed the box rapidly and concealed it inside the sling, tucked against the crook of his elbow. He peeked out of the shack, but again no one was paying attention to him. He had time, if he was both quick and quiet, to get back to the trees.

It wasn't hard to manage. From the tree line, he watched as Cal withstood several blows, his arms held, and wondered if Cal would manage to escape. Would he be captured or killed? Cal fell, bringing the people holding him to the ground - 

\- and broke free of their grasp on the floor. Vincent almost gasped with relief as Cal jumped to his feet and ran, pursued by the majority of the camp. Vincent turned into the trees and, as planned, crept further into the woods in the other direction.

He walked for several minutes, then found a good hiding-place: a hollow at the foot of a tree. He took the box out of his sling and put it into his lap, drew the knife from his belt, and waited.

The rising sun, when it came, would lead him back to Cal.

**21**

It had rained overnight. Cal's whole body ached: from exhaustion, from three hard fights in the space of twelve hours, from the night spent in the woods. Particularly bad were the sore spot on his head from where it had been rammed into the cart and his stomach, where he'd been punched repeatedly. He'd run for what seemed like hours, far past the point of exhaustion, until he was absolutely sure that he'd lost them completely. He couldn't risk leading those bastards back to the diamonds. Back to Vin.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally reached the road. It wasn't much like safety, but at least he was one step closer to the end of this mess. Though only dirt - mud, now - the road was much easier going than the rough ground of the woods, and Cal was grateful for that. After only a few minutes of walking, he could see the trap, and Marta, but no Vin. He jogged the last hundred yards or so, stroked Marta's damp coat, and cursed under his breath.

"Vin?" he called. "Are you here?"

No answer.

He sat down, resting his sore back against one of the wheels of the trap, and waited, hugging his knees. After a while his eyes drifted closed. He didn't know how long he drifted, but when he opened his eyes again the grey light of dawn had become the grey light of a winter morning. It wasn't much of a difference. Rubbing his eyes, he made himself get to his feet. His stomach was growling, but he couldn't think about that now. Where was Vin?

He called Vin's name a few times, experimentally, wary of drawing attention from Loretta's people instead. Would they come back here? They very well might, now it was morning - which meant that Cal really had to get out of here. But he wasn't leaving without Vin.

He circled the trap a few times, frantic and unsure what to do. They'd promised to meet back here, as soon after dawn as they could manage. Cal supposed Vin might have hidden deeper in the woods or found himself off to the north or south; but he couldn't shake the feeling that Vin should be here by now.

It was with a burst of relief that, some minutes later, he noticed a figure trudging up the road from the north. He took a few steps along the road, squinting. "Vin?" he shouted. "Vin!"

The figure looked up and picked up its pace, and despite his exhaustion Cal broke into a run. Vin was favouring his left leg a bit, Cal thought, but he began to run too, and in a few seconds they were finally, finally in each other's arms. Cal had to be careful to avoid crushing Vin's injured arm, but he plastered Vin's face with kisses even as he did so, holding Vincent as close as he dared.

Cal groaned with pleasure when Vin kissed his mouth, the good hand coming up to caress his cheek.

"We've got to go," Cal said between kisses, though he could hardly keep himself under control. Vin responded with another hard, hungry kiss and Cal leaned into it, giving as good as he got. "Gods, I want you," he said, "but we've got to get out of here, they'll be coming."

Vin pulled back, panting, and nodded.

He slipped his hand into Cal's as they walked back in the direction of the trap.

*

They'd planned on two nights in the forest, but they'd lost nearly a whole day's travel; Cal thought they'd probably be in the woods both tonight and tomorrow night. Which would have been a minor annoyance in normal circumstances, but with Loretta's crew who-knew-where, seemed outright dangerous.

It wasn't like there was another way to go, though. They ate breakfast on the road, splitting a loaf of bread and a pile of dried meat; and after breakfast, Cal tentatively put his arm around Vin's shoulders, driving Marta one-handed. Vin smiled at him and leaned against Cal's chest.

"So it seems to me," Cal said after a while, "that we're dead no matter what we do."

Vin was quiet for a moment as he pondered. Then he said, "Not _quite,_ I don't think." He straightened up a bit. "I think we can still make this work."

"Vin, she set us up," said Cal. "Your aunt, I mean. Or someone who works for her. And it's the same person who's been setting us up from the beginning. The same person who hired Brodie."

"Probably my aunt herself," Vin said softly.

Cal thought for a minute and then said, "Something I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"Everything she's done so far," said Cal, "has been… I dunno what the word is. It's been something we couldn't prove. Something she could cover up by saying it's - the enemy, or bandits, or someone else who wants you dead."

"Deniable," said Vin.

"Yeah. So why is that? If she wants you dead, why doesn't she hire someone to kill you and have done with it?"

Vin looked at Cal for a long moment, as if he hadn't thought of that. Then he said, "My grandmother," in a soft, surprised voice.

"The one in Rissing?"

"Yes." Vin nodded. "Yes. She wouldn't hold with this kind of action. Not against her own family. And… my mother was always her favourite."

Cal wondered if that played into the politics of the thing. If Vin was the son of his grandmother's favourite, maybe his aunt even saw him as a threat. He squeezed Vin lightly around the shoulders "Can we use that?" he said. "Can we use that information to make some kind of play?"

"Maybe," Vin said. "Let me think about it."

"Okay," Cal said.

He withdrew his arm, but Vincent said, "No, you should keep your arm around me while I think."

Cal put his arm back obediently. Vin rested his head on Cal's shoulder and as they drove on, Cal smiled.

*

It started to rain again a couple of hours before sunset: a light drizzle at first, but by the time they stopped for the night, the rain was heavy and cold. They draped one oiled cloth over the trap and another over Marta, and Cal pitched their tent quickly and hurried Vin inside it. Vin was already shivering from the wet and cold, but there was no point trying to build a fire in this weather. Instead, Cal pulled Vin into his arms and rubbed his back vigorously, trying to warm him up with sheer body heat.

It wasn't working.

"I'll get you some dry clothes," Cal said.

"Trying to get me naked?" Vin drawled. Cal chuckled, kissed him on the forehead, and ducked out of the tent into the thick rain. He climbed up onto the trap and lifted the cloth to dig for one of the bags of clothes inside. As an afterthought, he grabbed a blanket. He hid the whole bundle under his jacket to keep them dry as he dashed back to the tent.

Vin was trying, one-armed, to get undressed inside. "Here," Cal said, letting the bag and the blanket fall to the ground. "Let me do that."

"You are trying to get me naked," Vin said, and his sly smile made something stir within Cal - the same something he'd been trying to deny for this whole trip. Something fluttered in the pit of Cal's stomach as he knelt at Vin's side and began to ease his shirt and jacket off his arm. They were so wet that they came as a single sodden piece, dripping water onto Cal's trousers.

The sling was soaked through, too. Cal slid it off Vin's shoulder gently, trying to avoid disturbing his injured arm. But getting the other side of the shirt and jacket off over the splint was impossible; they were just too small. Vin lent Cal Brodie's dagger to cut a wide enough slit in them to remove them, and after that Cal leaned over to grab the blanket. He wrapped it gently around Vin's shoulders, and Vin leaned forward to rest against Cal for a minute.

Cal's arm slid around Vin's back - over the blanket, though he was tempted to put his hand under the blanket and touch Vincent's bare skin. "You must be shattered," he said.

He gave Vincent's back a slow stroke, and Vin hummed happily against his shoulder. "I am," he said.

"Then let's get you out of these wet clothes and get you to bed," Cal said.

"You're not sleeping?" Vin asked, lifting his head to look at Cal.

"Someone has to keep watch."

"No. Cal." Vin lifted his good arm to stroke the side of Cal's face. "You're exhausted too. You have to sleep."

"If we both sleep, Loretta's people could find us in the night. Slit our throats." Or slit _Cal's_ throat, and deliver Vin back to his aunt with the diamonds, as originally planned. Cal didn't want that. "Tired or not, I'm still your bodyguard. It's my job to keep you safe."

"Cal…"

"I mean it," Cal said.

"I know."

Vin leaned up to kiss Cal then, and Cal kissed back, feeling a desperate kind of delight flood through his body. It would be so nice to give into that feeling, to put his hands on Vin's body and -

\- but now wasn't the time, not while they were in such danger.

He drew back reluctantly, running a hand through Vin's wet hair. Vin gave him a faint smile. "But I want you here," he said. "With me. Tonight."

Cal rested his forehead against Vin's and began, gently, to help Vin out of his trousers.

It was so hard, faced with all that skin, not to pull Vin close and begin to kiss him all over. Instead, he had to help Vin into dry clothes, arrange a bedroll under him and that blanket over him. He went back to the trap to fetch another blanket to serve as a pillow, but by the time he got back to the tent, Vin was already asleep. Cal folded the blanket, carefully placed it under Vin's head, and positioned himself at the entrance to the tent, where he could look out into the dark forest.

He sat there all night.

**22**

Vincent insisted on driving the next day, against Cal's protests. Cal was exhausted. That was obvious almost as soon as Vincent woke: there were dark rings around his eyes, and when he got up, his movements were stiff and slow.

If they'd been on foot, they might have pressed on late into the night, hoping to reach the edge of the forest before they needed to rest. But Marta not only had to get them to Woodhaven in one piece, she had to get them home again, too. They couldn't afford to overwork her.

So they stopped again as the sun began to set. That night was cold, but thankfully the rain held off. They took turns keeping watch - Vincent first, Cal later - and they set off the following morning at dawn.

If Loretta's people were still looking, they hadn't found them.

Cal drove the next day. The roads were empty enough; they didn't see a soul the entire morning. It was without discussing it, without a single word at all, that Cal put his arm around Vincent and pulled him close as they got moving after lunch. Vincent leaned against Cal gratefully, feeling exhausted and cold, wanting to steal as much of Cal's warmth as he could. After a few minutes, he closed his eyes.

When he woke, the only remnant of the sun was a stubborn line of red on the horizon. The sky was darkening quickly, stars beginning to become visible, and Vincent was sore. He'd been slumped sideways against Cal for he didn't know how many hours.

"Sorry," Vincent said, straightening up, "I must have fallen asleep."

Cal began to withdraw his arm, but Vincent snatched it and held it in place. "You slept for hours," Cal said. A smile had begun to play at his lips. "You needed it."

"You need to sleep, too," said Vincent gently. "You haven't had a good night in three days."

Cal opened his mouth - probably to say he was fine. Vincent let go of Cal's arm and put his left hand over Cal's mouth, felt Cal's lips curve up into a smile against his palm. Vincent smiled, too, as Cal kissed his it.

"Where are we?" Vincent asked.

"I think that's Braedon," said Cal, and when Vincent looked, he saw buildings in the distance. Maybe a couple of miles away.

"Good," Vincent said. "We'll get to the inn tonight. Then you can get some proper rest."

"We both can." Cal squeezed Vincent's shoulder gently, and Vincent put his head back on Cal's shoulder.

*

The inn was tiny, the walls thin and the bed rickety, but Vincent couldn't possibly have cared less. He and Cal ate a large, rapid meal in near-silence, both their bellies feeling ravenously empty after three days of eating on the road. Afterwards, stuffed, they leaned on each other companionably as they walked back to their room, not caring who saw or what rumours they started.

Cal, holding the box of diamonds tightly under the arm that wasn't wrapped around Vincent, guided them into their tiny room. There was barely enough space on the floor for Cal to lay out his bedroll, and Vincent glanced up at Cal, an idea forming in his mind.

Out of necessity, their bedrolls had been close together in the small tent, but they hadn't slept at the same time since the ambush. All the same, Vincent had gone to sleep both nights imagining Cal's warmth at his side. The fantasy had been both comforting and exciting.

Vincent went to the bed and began to unlace his boots one-handed - a long and slow process - while Cal closed the door. He shouldn't have been surprised when Cal came to kneel at his feet, pushing his hand away; but he couldn't quell the fluttering in the pit of his stomach. Cal, with both of his hands, was much faster than Vincent could have been, and soon he'd pulled one boot, then the other, from Vincent's foot.

Vincent looked down at Cal, feeling warm all over.

"Cal," he said.

Cal's hand came to caress the side of Vincent's face. The contact felt so nice that it made Vincent close his eyes with pleasure. Cal said nothing, only stroking Vincent's cheekbone over and over with his thumb.

"Cal, come to bed with me," Vincent said, his eyes still closed.

Cal's thumb stilled on his cheek and then, hesitantly, Cal withdrew his hand. Vincent opened his eyes. Cal's expression was one of utter misery, and Vincent found himself frowning in response. "What?" he said.

"I can't," Cal said.

"Why not?"

"I'm supposed to protect you," Cal said. "I can't do that from your bed. I'll be - " He hesitated, his gaze fixed on Vincent's mouth so firmly that Vincent felt a hot flash of desire run through him. "Distracted."

"That _is_ the idea," Vincent said, smiling.

"Yeah, I know."

Cal got up and sat on the bed beside Vincent, careful not to touch him. Vincent wanted to throw himself bodily at Cal, cover his face with kisses, press their bodies together, pull Cal down onto the bed - yes, one-handed, if he had to - and not get up until morning. But Cal still looked sad and reluctant.

"I do love you, Cal," Vincent said.

Cal looked at him. "Oh, Vin," he said, "I know you do," and he kissed Vincent hard, his hand coming to tangle in Vincent's hair. Vincent returned the kiss with fervour, feeling passion rise in him like a fever. When they finally ended the kiss, they were both panting. "I love you, too," said Cal.

This time it was Vincent who initiated the kiss. They kissed for several long, delicious minutes, Cal's hands moving up and down Vincent's back. Vincent ran his one good hand through Cal's short hair, over and over, savouring the feeling of Cal's body beside his, of Cal's hot mouth and devilish tongue.

"Vin," Cal said, drawing back at last. He was breathing heavily and Vincent was gasping for air, heat all over his skin. "I've got to protect you. And protect those diamonds. I can't do my job if we're - "

Vincent nodded.

He couldn't exactly argue that it wouldn't take very long; not when he wanted to touch and hold Cal for as long as he possibly could.

"But, gods, I want to," Cal finished.

"Are we in much danger?" Vincent asked. "If Loretta's people didn't find us in the forest, how likely are they to follow us all the way here?" His hand fell to Cal's thigh and he began to trace a random pattern there with the tip of his finger.

"I don't know." Cal closed his eyes and let out a slow, shuddery breath. "I don't think - if they are still looking, they're not very good at it."

"Mm."

"But that's not to say… your aunt might've… oh, _Vin,_ " said Cal. Vincent stopped the movement of his hand against Cal's thigh, and Cal said, "No, don't stop…"

"I don't think it's likely," Vincent said, taking up the movement of his hand again. "I think she'd trust Loretta and Brodie to get the job done. After all, if she needed to make it look like brigands…"

Cal nodded, his lips pressed tight together as if he was trying to hold his tongue.

"Maybe we can afford to indulge," Vincent said. He slid his finger further up Cal's thigh and was rewarded with a soft, helpless whimper. When he risked a glance down at Cal's lap, he saw that the crotch of Cal's trousers was distorted with an erection, and he couldn't help but lick his lips, his own cock filling inevitably at the sight. He let his thumb sweep up the inside of Cal's thigh, near to the erection but not touching it, and Cal whimpered again.

"I want this so much," Vincent said.

Cal's answer was to lean forward to kiss Vincent's mouth.

*

They fell sideways onto the bed together, Cal's arms wrapped around Vincent's waist, holding their bodies close together. Cal's kisses were fevered now, soft quick ones between gasps for air punctuating longer, deeper explorations that left Vincent panting. Cal pulled his shirt over his head without bothering to unbutton it and then gently, carefully helped Vincent get out of his, trying not to disturb Vincent's injured wrist too much.

There were a couple of jolts of pain as the splint was jostled, but Vincent barely noticed.

Cal sat up to take his own boots off and Vincent lay on his left side, watching Cal adoringly. He really was beautiful, Vincent thought - though his muscular back was mottled with bruises, black and blue and purple. Vincent would have to be careful, too.

When Cal turned, Vincent saw that Cal's chest was a mass of bruises, too, and there were scrapes and grazes as well, as if perhaps Cal had been dragged a little way on his stomach across the forest floor. When had that happened? While Vincent had been running away with the diamonds? Feeling an unaccustomed stab of guilt, he reached out to pull Cal into his arms.

They kissed again, fervently, Cal's hands coming to unfasten Vincent's trousers. Vincent allowed him to be undressed willingly, letting his one good hand work its way lower and lower on Cal's body. Cal jerked a little as Vincent's fingers passed over a bruise.

"Are you in pain?" Vincent said, frowning.

"Not too bad." Cal bit his lip, concentrating on Vincent's trousers; Vincent put his hand to an unblemished part of Cal's belly. Those parts were, at the moment, rare. "Fine there," Cal said, and then made a noise of satisfaction as the last button came free. Vincent, too, breathed a sigh of relief as Cal shoved his trousers down his hips.

"Your turn," Vincent said eagerly.

Cal grinned as his hands leapt to his own trousers. He made shorter work of them and got up to finish disrobing. Vincent did the same, but was taking longer-one handed. When Cal, naked, turned back to help him, he smiled.

They climbed back onto the bed together and Vincent rolled against Cal's chest, hungry, not wanting to tease any more. He grabbed Cal's erection with his good hand and gave it a few firm tugs, making Cal grin hard with pleasure. Cal's hand quickly came to return the favour, and for several minutes they lay side by side, drawing gasps and moans out of one another, trading kisses as they touched.

And then, all of a sudden, it was too much. Vincent bucked against Cal's hand, pressing his head against Cal's shoulder. He closed his eyes and gave a soft cry as he came, feeling release wash through him: intense pleasure followed immediately by blissful relaxation. After a few moments to get his breath back, he looked up at Cal's face. His hand was still loose around Cal's cock, Cal breathing hard and watching him intensely.

With a slow smile, Vincent began to move his hand again. It didn't take much longer until Cal, too, succumbed to pleasure, grunting loudly as he did. For several breaths afterwards, Cal's face stayed pressed into the pillow, his body shuddering with each heavy breath. Vincent wiped his hand on the blanket and then let it hover over Cal's back, looking for an unbruised spot to put it down. It took him a moment to find it.

"Darling," he said softly.

Cal looked up and threw his arms around Vincent, burying his face in Vincent's neck. "Love you," he said, his voice muffled against Vincent's skin. Vincent held Cal as securely as he could with only one good hand, breathing in and out against Cal's shoulder.

"Yes," Vincent said. "I love you."

"I should - "

"You should get under the covers and fall asleep at my side," Vincent said, putting a little Dumayne imperiousness into his tone. Then, in a softer voice, he said, "Don't you think?"

"I do," said Cal.

Vincent smiled against Cal's collarbone. "Come on, then."


	7. Chapter 7

**23**

Cal thought it was a miracle that they were only a day late.

They showed up in Woodhaven with their bruises and scrapes and broken bones, ready to be brought in front of Vin's aunt's contact for a scolding. But it turned out that Mirielle Garaie was not exactly what they'd expected.

Cal thought she might have some Elven blood in her. She was tall enough, with that faraway look that Cal associated with elves, that… distance, as if the world was a bit beneath her. She didn't even greet Cal and Vin - she just looked once at the box, said, "Acceptable," in a loud, ringing voice, and waved her hand to dismiss them. They got out of that room as fast as they could.

They were brought the scroll that evening at the inn, by a small girl who looked dirty enough to be an urchin. Cal thought she was maybe eight or nine. When Vin offered her a coin for her trouble, she shook her head vigorously and ran away.

It was Cal who insisted that they go to the temple the next day; Vincent was anxious to get back on the road. But poor old Marta could do with a day's rest before the long trek back home, and while Cal's bruises were already fading, Vin needed a healer. That wrist needed fixing.

The worst part, for Cal, was being made to wait outside while Vin was treated. Twice, he almost burst into the room at the sound of Vin crying out in pain - and twice he restrained himself. After the second cry, there were almost ten minutes of silence. Then Vin emerged, the splint and sling disposed of, flexing his right wrist with a look of wonder on his face.

Cal paid the priest almost all his pontoon winnings.

"Come on," he said to Vin as they left the temple, "let's find something to do."

*

Woodhaven was small; there wasn't much to explore. They made a thorough survey, though; Cal was reminded of exploring his village and the surrounding area with his older brother as a kid. They found a bakery, and Vin spent a whole gold piece on cakes that served as a mid-morning snack. A little further down the town's high road, they found a smithy.

Cal had never had the money to spend on armour or weapons. He fought with his fists, and while he could have picked up a set of knuckles, he usually found the only got in the way. Armour had always struck him as a nice bonus, but not necessary - if you were fighting someone with a knife, your best bet was to get it off them before they cut your throat.

So it was with surprise that he found Vin asking the smith about armour. Not for himself, but for Cal. Cal spent the rest of the morning trying on various pieces of gear, testing out their weight and his range of movement. There was nothing that fit Cal exactly, but there _was_ a chain shirt that seemed to offer decent protection without being too heavy or restrictive.

Cal's eyes almost bulged out of their sockets when he heard the price, but Vin shrugged and dug into his pocket. He gave a handful of gold pieces to the smith - a good chunk of his stash, Cal noticed - and Cal opened his mouth to protest, but Vin shushed him with a gesture. The armour needed some adjustments to fit Cal properly; it'd be ready the next morning.

That suited them just fine.

"Call it a bonus," Vin said lightly as they left the smithy. "For going above and beyond the call of duty."

"Vin - "

Vin turned to smile at him. "Or a gift from your lover. Whichever you prefer."

That made Cal grin. "I know which _I_ prefer," Vin went on, and if they hadn't been in the middle of the street, he'd have kissed Vin right then and there.

Instead, he clapped Vin on the back, as a friend might, and left his hand there a little longer than a friend would have done. Until they got back to the privacy of their room at the inn, that would have to do.

*

"I wonder what it is," said Vin, sitting on their bed.

It was definitely _their_ bed. Cal had protested, somewhat half-heartedly, the previous night; in the Woodhaven inn there was plenty of space on the floor. But Vin had been having none of it. They'd ended up teasing each other under the covers for almost an hour, and Cal wouldn't have been surprised if their shouts of pleasure had woken the entire inn.

Now, though, he was sitting on the floor, cleaning their boots as Vin examined the scroll they'd bought for his aunt. It didn't look like much - just a long roll of parchment - but in Cal's experience, they never did. "Must be some spell," he said.

"I suppose it must."

Carefully, he rolled the scroll back up and placed it back in its box. This one was much more ornate than the box the diamonds came in, with ornate carved patterns on all four sides. They'd have to keep a good watch on it on the way home.

Cal wondered if Vin's aunt would send more people to try to take it.

He hoped not. They could survive it, they'd proved that, but at what cost? Next time Vin might lose his arm instead of just breaking it at the wrist. Next time they might not be able to find a temple in time. Next time… well, anything could happen.

And now, with what had happened between them, it felt like they had even more to lose. He got up, leaving the boots, and sat on the bed next to Vin. "Think we'll get back?" he asked.

"I think we will," said Vin. "You and me, we're untouchable." He grinned broadly, but it looked brittle and scared to Cal.

"I hope you're right," Cal said.

**24**

The following morning, Cal took care of Marta and packed while Vin went to the smithy. He came back to the inn not only with Cal's chain shirt, but another bag full of those expensive cakes they'd enjoyed so much yesterday.

"Put it on," Vin said, handing Cal the armour.

It took Cal a few minutes to get the thing sitting right, but it felt surprisingly comfortable once it was properly on. "What do you think?" he asked Vin, spreading his arms to show off the full effect, the small rings of mail glinting in the winter sun.

Vin grinned at him. "You look so handsome," he said.

He reached up onto the cart and handed Cal his leather jacket. The jacket sat neatly on top of the armour; maybe it would be a bit hot to combine both of them in summer, but now, midway through winter, it felt good.

Vin put the bag of cakes between them as they climbed up onto the trap, and they munched their way through them as they journeyed back towards the forest, talking all the while. Their journey that day was uneventful, their night in Braedon filled up with good food and the pleasure of their shared bed.

Still, Cal woke the following morning with snakes in his guts. They were in for at least two days in that forest.

*

Most of their first day in the forest was quiet; they saw not a soul on the road. Cal didn't suppose many people braved the woods unless they really had to. He didn't know whether this forest was usually populated with the kind of people who'd attacked them on their journey out - and he'd guess not. Those people, after all, had started in the same city that Cal and Vin had.

So he was surprised when, an hour or so before sunset, he heard a yell from the woods to his left. He only had time to think that it sounded like a person - though there were plenty of things in the forest that could sound like a person if they wanted to. Moments later, a woman appeared at the side of the road.

Cal brought Marta to a halt as she said, "Please, you've got to help me."

She was Elven, dressed in a plain undyed shirt and trousers that looked homemade, her fair hair tied back behind her head. Cal let the reins go and hopped down from the trap. "What's happened?" he asked.

"It's my son," said the woman, "he's hurt, he was clearing the dead tree by our house and it fell on him and - "

People had houses in the forest? "Slow down," said Cal. "What's your name?"

"Shaelee. Please, you've got to come quickly!"

Cal looked over his shoulder at Vin. Vin had already taken hold of Marta's reins and was watching Cal and the woman. He nodded once, and Cal said, "All right."

He followed her into the trees, through a glade that struck Cal as pretty, though he didn't have much time to appreciate it - Shaelee was moving at quite a pace. After a couple of minutes, they arrived near a small stone house. Shaelee led him around the back, where a young Elven man was lying, apparently trapped, under a tree.

He was trying to get the thing off himself, but with one arm pinned to the floor, he didn't have a lot of leverage. Cal didn't say anything; he just crouched by the tree and began to haul.

They were lucky that it was a youngish tree. The tree was very heavy, but once he'd managed to lift the tree off the young elf's arm, they could move the thing together. Shaelee hovered to one side as they moved it off, but Cal only spared her one glance. She looked anxious enough. Cal's muscles complained as he did most of the work; the lad's arm was clearly injured and couldn't take much weight.

But they did it in the end. The young man wriggled out from under the tree as soon as Cal gave him space, then lay in the grass panting as Cal let the thing fall.

"Elwyn!" Shaelee said, rushing forward to tend to her son. After a few moments, Cal got to his feet, still panting, and nodded to Shaelee as he went to make his way back to the trap.

"Wait," Elwyn called. His voice was thin but Cal, not having got very far, caught it anyway. "You should stay. Let us give you a meal." Shaelee drew breath, but he said, "I'm fine, Mother."

"I've got a - friend waiting," Cal said.

Elwyn was already sitting up. "So bring your friend," he said.

Cal glanced at Shaelee, who nodded. He nodded back. Elwyn was already getting to his feet as Cal turned back in the direction of the road.

*

"You should see a healer," Shaelee said.

Cal, sat at the table next to Vin, had offered help and been waved away. Elwyn was apparently the cook of the family, and while he'd let his mother put his injured arm in a sling, he seemed to be managing admirably one-handed. He waved his mother away with a hand that was holding a spoon and she retreated slightly, turning toward the table to offer Cal and Vin more wine.

Elwyn was garrulous as he cooked, and more so over dinner. Shaelee, on the other hand, was quiet, watching her son with worried eyes. Cal could understand her concern; he didn't think Elwyn had been trapped under that tree for very long, all things considered.

But Vin, too, was at his most cheerful and talkative when he was hiding pain.

Cal observed Elwyn slyly through dinner, the way he'd watched Vin in the days after his stabbing, the days after the poisoning, looking for any sign of weakness or pain. But Elwyn showed none - or at least none that Cal could detect. Elwyn's left arm was immobilised in its sling, but he seemed to be taking his injury with a surprising amount of good humour.

After dinner, they were going to leave and make camp somewhere near the road, but Elwyn insisted that they bed down on the kitchen floor, leaving Marta and the trap outside. "This is a safe place," he told them, which made Cal wonder if it was protected by some magic or other. It was certainly beautiful, though maybe no more beautiful than the rest of the forest. Maybe Elwyn and his mother were druids.

It was the first night since that first in Braedon that Cal and Vin hadn't made love; and when Cal woke the following morning, his arms wrapped around Vin's chest, he really felt the lack of it. But when they got back to Accreton, he promised himself they'd be together that whole night.

Elwyn insisted on making them breakfast, and loading them up on fresh bread and dried deer meat before they went. Cal noticed that Vin surreptitiously left a pile of gold coins on the kitchen table - enough, maybe, for Elwyn to pay a healer. Or at least to make his mother feel better.

It was hard work to get Marta and the trap through the woods and back to the road, but they managed it. After they'd been on the road a few minutes, Cal slipped his arm around Vin's shoulders and pulled him close, driving one-handed.

They were going home.

**25**

They were utterly glad to reach Accreton. The forest hadn't been too bad - they'd spent that second night under the stars, trading off watches in case Vincent's aunt had decided to send more thugs, but they'd got lucky. By the time they got to the inn, Vincent was exhausted.

The scroll box stayed under his arm as he climbed the stairs. They'd done reasonably well, overall. What with the extra day in the woods and the extra day in Woodhaven, they'd be a bit later back than planned - but they'd done it. Aunt Isabelle had made it nearly impossible, but they'd done it.

Once they got home, Vincent would be glad never to have to protect a damned box ever again.

Leaving the box on a table, he threw himself onto the bed, then bent forward to take his boots off. He was still savouring the use of his right wrist. It felt fine now, though he'd thought for a while that he might not get full use of it back. When his boots were gone, he flopped backwards onto the bed and closed his eyes. He was exhausted.

Cal would be here soon, and maybe they'd get dinner first, or maybe they'd make love first. Vincent wasn't sure he cared which order they did that in, as long as both of them happened at some point before they slept. Only two days, but it already seemed like so long since he'd had Cal in his arms.

Of course, Cal had to take care of the horse before he could come upstairs.

Vincent let his eyes drift closed, his hands folded on his stomach. There was a fire lit, so the room was nice and warm despite the chilly air outside. It would be good, he thought, to take Cal in his arms in this warm, comfortable bed. This was a good place. A safe place.

His thoughts were drifting… drifting… and long before Cal was anywhere near, Vincent was asleep.

*

"Vin," Cal said, and Vincent opened his eyes reluctantly, feeling groggy and warm. "You fell asleep," Cal said affectionately. Vincent grunted and struggled into a sitting position, where he was rewarded for falling asleep with a kiss.

"Sorry," Vincent said against Cal's mouth.

Cal kissed him again. "It's all right," he said. Vincent closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Cal's. "You're exhausted. Last night was rough."

"For you, too," Vincent pointed out, and he heard Cal make an amused huff. "Come on, my love," he said, "you're allowed to need sleep."

"I do need sleep," he said. "But you were hurt."

"You were hurt, too."

"Not so bad." Cal's hand was moving up and down Vincent's back, a slow, soothing rhythm. Vincent's head ended up on Cal's shoulder.

"I'm perfectly all right now," he said. "Just really tired."

"Early night?" Cal asked, and Vincent grinned.

"Let's get something to eat first," he said, "and then… yes, let's have an early night."

They went downstairs hand in hand, and if a few people gave them odd looks, Vincent couldn't have cared less. They dined like lovers, feet entangled underneath the table, reaching out for each other between bites, talking in spurts. Vincent could not have been gladder when they were finished eating and could go back up to their room, Cal's arm around Vincent's shoulder, Vincent's head resting on Cal's shoulder.

"Now," said Cal as soon as he'd closed the door behind them, "let's see about that early night."

Vincent grabbed Cal's hand and tugged him towards the bed.

*

They left Accreton that morning in good spirits. They had the scroll, they had their lives - and they had each other, Vincent thought, and that was what really mattered. Not the scroll or whatever his aunt wanted to do with it, but the feeling for each other they'd found on the way.

Vincent rather thought that feeling had existed in both of them for a good long time, but that didn't matter now.

The journey home felt very short - too short. It was only when they were less than a mile from the city walls that he realised that he really didn't want to go back to that city. Not now, after everything. He thought, too late, that they should have stolen those diamonds, and the horse and trap, and got as far as they could from the city. Stayed far, far away forever.

They could have been a long way from here by now. But that didn't matter either: the diamonds were long gone, now, and an unidentified scroll wouldn't get them very far. All they could do now was take the scroll back to Aunt Isabelle and take whatever consequences came for being late. He supposed they'd find out what they were.

"I don't want to go back," he found himself saying to Cal.

Cal turned to him. "I was just thinking the same thing."

Vincent smiled wryly. It wasn't as if they could do much about it, but it was nice, he supposed, that they agreed. "I don't," he said, and swallowed a surprisingly large lump in his throat. "I don't want this job any more. I don't want to work for this awful family any more."

"Me neither," Cal said. His arm was already around Vincent's shoulder; he gave Vincent a squeeze. "So we get out," he said.

"It's not that simple," Vincent said miserably.

"No, it's not. But you've got brains. And I've got the muscle, right? We'll find a way."

"How?"

"Don't know yet. But we'll work it out." Another gentle squeeze around Vincent's shoulders. "You'll see."

"I hope you're right."

They went on. There wasn't much else to do. It wasn't long until they were drawing up outside the Dumayne house, and Ariane was there to help with Marta and the trap. Cal jumped down to the ground while Vincent rummaged for the scroll box and brought it out.

"You go up," Vincent said to Cal. "I'll take this to Aunt Isabelle." He held up the box.

"Up to your rooms?" Cal asked. Vincent nodded. "To do what?"

"What do you think?" Vincent said. He flashed Cal a wicked grin, and got a grin in return. That made him feel better, a layer of warmth over the icy pit in his stomach. Now they would see what happened.

Cal went in ahead of him. Vincent took a deep breath, steeled himself, and began the journey down long corridors to see his aunt.


End file.
